[ It's luck, mostly. But Ciri can't say she wasn't looking for a reason to leave too, to go somewhere far enough that it might help her clear her head, that maybe sleeping under the stars will chase away at least some of the nightmares. When one of her regular customers asks to hire her as muscle for his wagon on the way to Aquila, Ciri readily -- eagerly -- accepts.
After some thought, the night before she leaves, she decides to invite Rinwell along.
The girl has been antsy since the festival, and for good reason; with anti-mage sentiment simmering hotter since Eifstide and the ill-advised rallies around the prime minister's office pushing tensions higher, the city must feel stifling for someone as connected to magic as Rinwell. They could both use an escape. Besides, Ciri knows that Rinwell has been trying her hardest to earn her keep, and she respects that. She knows how to handle herself on a horse now too, more or less. The trip is on a main road, and Ciri is being hired more as an extra precaution to scare away bandits than because there is a great expectation for danger along the path.
I know you can handle it, Ciri had told Rinwell as they'd strapped their saddlebags onto the horses in the pre-dawn morning. She'd smiled encouragingly, placing a hand on Rinwell's shoulder. And then, she'd given Rinwell a dagger-- her own, the first one she'd bought in this city after escaping from Thorne, before Geralt had gifted her with the silver wolf's head blade that she never parts with now.
The trip out toward Aquila is uneventful the first couple of nights. The days are warm, but not blistering; the nights are cold, nearly freezing, but they huddle near the fire and sleep under warm blankets, and it's not so bad in Ciri's experience. Besides the merchant and his apprentice, it is just the two of them, along with a large wagon pulled by four mules, with two more tied behind hitched to an extra cart for additional merchandise. They are a slow and burdensome procession, but the merchant is an amicable fellow, rail-thin and wiry with a curled moustache so well-kept it's clearly his pride and joy. He's chatty enough to be pleasant, but not so much as to be a bother. The apprentice, a lanky teenager, keeps to himself. Plenty of food (and drink) is provided. All in all, it's a cushy way to earn some decent coin.
Ciri is settled by the fire one night with a bowl of stew and a mug of wine, about halfway to the city. A few more days until they get there, and then they'll likely stay about as long until the merchant's done with his business before heading back. She sips from her bowl, staring into the fire, aware of the familiar footsteps crunching behind her. ]
Do we have enough firewood?
[ She asks without looking back. The term firewood is a bit of a misnomer; there are some skinny trees out here, but most of their fodder comes from the myriad of dry, brittle bushes and shrubs that litter the landscape, making easy kindling for the thicker logs the merchant had brought along for that purpose. ]
for rinwell; mid january.
After some thought, the night before she leaves, she decides to invite Rinwell along.
The girl has been antsy since the festival, and for good reason; with anti-mage sentiment simmering hotter since Eifstide and the ill-advised rallies around the prime minister's office pushing tensions higher, the city must feel stifling for someone as connected to magic as Rinwell. They could both use an escape. Besides, Ciri knows that Rinwell has been trying her hardest to earn her keep, and she respects that. She knows how to handle herself on a horse now too, more or less. The trip is on a main road, and Ciri is being hired more as an extra precaution to scare away bandits than because there is a great expectation for danger along the path.
I know you can handle it, Ciri had told Rinwell as they'd strapped their saddlebags onto the horses in the pre-dawn morning. She'd smiled encouragingly, placing a hand on Rinwell's shoulder. And then, she'd given Rinwell a dagger-- her own, the first one she'd bought in this city after escaping from Thorne, before Geralt had gifted her with the silver wolf's head blade that she never parts with now.
The trip out toward Aquila is uneventful the first couple of nights. The days are warm, but not blistering; the nights are cold, nearly freezing, but they huddle near the fire and sleep under warm blankets, and it's not so bad in Ciri's experience. Besides the merchant and his apprentice, it is just the two of them, along with a large wagon pulled by four mules, with two more tied behind hitched to an extra cart for additional merchandise. They are a slow and burdensome procession, but the merchant is an amicable fellow, rail-thin and wiry with a curled moustache so well-kept it's clearly his pride and joy. He's chatty enough to be pleasant, but not so much as to be a bother. The apprentice, a lanky teenager, keeps to himself. Plenty of food (and drink) is provided. All in all, it's a cushy way to earn some decent coin.
Ciri is settled by the fire one night with a bowl of stew and a mug of wine, about halfway to the city. A few more days until they get there, and then they'll likely stay about as long until the merchant's done with his business before heading back. She sips from her bowl, staring into the fire, aware of the familiar footsteps crunching behind her. ]
Do we have enough firewood?
[ She asks without looking back. The term firewood is a bit of a misnomer; there are some skinny trees out here, but most of their fodder comes from the myriad of dry, brittle bushes and shrubs that litter the landscape, making easy kindling for the thicker logs the merchant had brought along for that purpose. ]