[Oblivious to thoughts of daggers in the back and words so cutting they may slice away the herbs themselves, Stephen makes a noise of affirmation but little else. He’s already donned his gloves and has opened up his satchel to collect the herbs, taking them stem by stem. The work’s delicate, but not too delicate for slightly unsteady hands — mostly, these plants will be smashed into a paste by mortar and pestle, or tossed into a brewing tincture, so there’s no need to keep each blossom uncrushed or each stem unbent.
Time passes, leaves rustle with the wind. Small pieces of shale tumble down from the rock face as Stephen eases them free. The event’s, well… uneventful, mostly, and he should be glad for the lack of troublemakers interrupting this outing. Maybe Jasper’s presence would be redundant after all. Not much good for the man’s boredom, doing little more than keeping watch, but Stephen doesn’t feel the need to hurry on his account alone.
In fact, it’s when the second satchel-full is nearly stuffed to the brim—after having already descended once to attach a whole bag of herbs to one of the horses—when something more than just wind moves through the branches. It’s faint at first, just a whistle of an object arcing through the air, before that same object slams into the stone right next to Stephen’s hand, flown over his shoulder and missing by half an inch at best.
The arrow bends and bounces off the crag, falling. Lightning lances through Stephen’s nerves, adrenaline doing its work; it’s all the motivation he needs to drop back down to the ground in a rush of a billowing cloak, landing with such an unceremonious crouch that hoarfrost clings to his knees.]
Jasper! Archers!
[In case he hadn’t noticed the ruckus, the stray arrow now sticking in the shrubbery nearby.
Should the man have a keen pair of eyes, able to pick out a couple of human forms wearing leather tanned to match the color of tree bark, he should find one nestled in the branches, crouched and balanced like an animal. The bandit reaches back into his quiver to correct his first missed shot.
And farther down, in a tree adjacent, one more such man. His bow is already drawn and trained on Jasper.]
no subject
Time passes, leaves rustle with the wind. Small pieces of shale tumble down from the rock face as Stephen eases them free. The event’s, well… uneventful, mostly, and he should be glad for the lack of troublemakers interrupting this outing. Maybe Jasper’s presence would be redundant after all. Not much good for the man’s boredom, doing little more than keeping watch, but Stephen doesn’t feel the need to hurry on his account alone.
In fact, it’s when the second satchel-full is nearly stuffed to the brim—after having already descended once to attach a whole bag of herbs to one of the horses—when something more than just wind moves through the branches. It’s faint at first, just a whistle of an object arcing through the air, before that same object slams into the stone right next to Stephen’s hand, flown over his shoulder and missing by half an inch at best.
The arrow bends and bounces off the crag, falling. Lightning lances through Stephen’s nerves, adrenaline doing its work; it’s all the motivation he needs to drop back down to the ground in a rush of a billowing cloak, landing with such an unceremonious crouch that hoarfrost clings to his knees.]
Jasper! Archers!
[In case he hadn’t noticed the ruckus, the stray arrow now sticking in the shrubbery nearby.
Should the man have a keen pair of eyes, able to pick out a couple of human forms wearing leather tanned to match the color of tree bark, he should find one nestled in the branches, crouched and balanced like an animal. The bandit reaches back into his quiver to correct his first missed shot.
And farther down, in a tree adjacent, one more such man. His bow is already drawn and trained on Jasper.]