sailorsdelight
face like a twisted tree root
Svarr was proud to have been trusted with such a task as this. He was! Never mind that he had to keep telling himself how proud he was. To be taken aside by his Captain, with the promise of a solitary mission entrusted to him by the Monarchs themselves, no honour could be higher for a lowly no-name Satyr. "You will fetch the witch," the Captain had said, as she gave him the sigil proving him to be a Guard of the castle, "to aid the war. This is important, Svarr. We're counting on you keeping them safe en route back to the castle, yes?"
Svarr could only nod and salute, keeping his composure as the Captain walked away. Straight-backed and face stoic, he kept his stride even as he walked to his own rooms (blessedly empty of his bunkmates). There he sat down on his mattress, and stared into nothing. The highest honour, his thoughts chided him with. Back among kinsfolk, his heart trembled in response. His hands gripped the blanket on his bed, hard enough to rip small holes with his nails. Svarr closed his eyes; collected his nervous thoughts, bound them up, and shoved them into a closet in the far back of his brain.
I'll be fine. I am a Guard of Acrand, I have been bestowed the high honour of a solitary mission which will aid the war. I will not be intimidated by my own kinsfolk.
It sort of helped. Hardly at all. He let out a long breath, more of a deep sigh, as his shoulders slumped. His collection of plants on the windowsill called to him - he would have to find someone he could trust to at least water them while he was gone. Hopefully some of them would survive his absent. At that thought, he rummaged through his neatly folded clothes, until he found an appropriate piece of cloth. He would take some cuttings of each, so he at least could re-plant the ones that would inevitably die. Keeping cuttings alive was no hardship, he had found that plants often went into a bear-like hibernation if he took care of them correctly, until their roots could find soil again.
Well, he thought. I should pack. Captain said to go as soon as possible. And it is some ways away.
A light leather brigandine and vambraces for travels should be protection; his longsword, and bow and arrows for hunting; dried and salted meats and fish, bread and cheese, his water skin. Thankfully he should only need his sleeping roll, and nothing extra for heat with both his fur and the late spring air keeping him warm. Coins for the road, and any possible taverns he might come across. The sigil, to give the witch should she doubt his identity. The plant cuttings, kept safe in a pouch around his neck.
Svarr hadn't travelled long distance since he took off from his own herd some fifteen years before, but years of training and some inherent instinct knew what to prepare for. He took off at midday, to no fanfare and few goodbyes - he only realised he had neglected to tell his bunkmates when he was a few hours away from the city.
-
The road to the witch's homestead was blessedly uneventful. It was the end of spring, edging into summer, and you could hardly believe their nation was actively being invaded from the tranquility of the countryside. Svarr had only just crested the hill to were the witch (Ilya?) kept shop, along with their herd. He found himself frozen there. It was mid-morning, and the weather was beautiful. He could clearly see groups of Fauns and Satyrs, playing and frolicking, laughing in groups, working.
Svarr swallowed hard. Chewed the inside of his mouth, fiddled with the gold ring in his ear.
I am a Guard of Acrand, of the Kingdom of Daelbeth. I have been trusted with a mission.
He straightened his back, and headed down. If he got curious looks by the others in the village, he resolutely ignored them. Most of them were forest fauns, he noted, and despite himself he saw them looking at his double horns and dark fur. Some smiled and waved. He made sure to nod back - it wouldn't do to give the Guards a bad reputation because of his own reservations.
A drop of sweat tickled the back of his neck.
He had made sure to freshen up in a stream before entering the village, but he was clearly travel-weary. His sword was secure in its scabbard, and his cuttings were still living in their pouch (he had checked. He was peevish of them). His hair was noticeably longer and wilder than when he had begun his journey, and he had not had a chance to shave, giving him a funny lopsided beard where his sideburns were longer than the rest.
Luckily, the shop was easy enough to find. He would have hated having to ask for directions. He collected himself for a moment outside their door, before stepping in.
"Ilya? I am Svarr, a Guard from the capitol, here to escort you to the castle."
