Therris
Half-orc Rogue
This is just a random snippet of a story I'm writing...hope ya'll like it!
They were coming.
He could just barely make out the figures through the driving rain. One tall, one fat. They were on horses, hunched over in their saddles. Their hoods hung limply over their faces. Both wore swords.
He tightened his grip on his bow, raising his gaze from the path to a nearby tree. Another figure, hardly more than a boy, sat perched on a thick branch. He tilted his head to the side, questioningly. Dimaethor nodded.
It was time.
Dimaethor kneeled in the ferns, nocking an arrow against the string of his bow. Across the path, he noticed a young man mirroring his movements. Above them, the boy let out a harsh cry, not unlike a raven’s. Three more calls answered.
The larger of the riders stopped. His horse tossed its head in protest. His companion stopped, too, twisting about in his saddle.
“What is it now, Derrek?” he shouted, his voice nearly drowned out in the rain.
“The cries – you think they were bandits?” Derrek called back. His companion’s shoulders slumped. It seemed he’d been asked the question many times.
“First you think a squirrel is a bandit, then a deer. Yes, Derrek, the ravens will also try to take our things.”
“But…but…this is Oakmarsh!” Derrek wailed. “You know the stories, Marc!”
“Yes, yes, I am aware of where we are,” Marc said angrily. “How long have we been in this forest?”
“Nearly three hours…”
“And we haven’t been attacked by bandits, have we?”
“No…”
“So, we’re fine. Now come on, you lily-livered idiot.” Marc snapped. He slammed his heels into his horse’s sides and trotted down the path. Dimaethor found himself smiling as he drew back the bowstring.
If only your words were true, my friend, he thought. He leapt to his feet, stepping onto the path.
“Halt!”
The man named Marc yanked his horse to a stop once again. His companion, who’d been following behind him, whimpered audibly over the sound of the rain.
“You thought to take a shortcut through Oakmarsh, didn’t you?” Dimaethor called. “Where are you heading? These woods may take you along many paths.”
“To Redgrass, sir,” Marc replied in a loud voice. “Now move, so that my companion and I may get to our destination wet and without chill.”
“The way is flooded. Your horses would be swept away by the mud and water. I could show you an easier route,” Dimaethor offered.
“Our horses are strong. I think they can fight a bit of water,” Marc said haughtily.
“Only for a time,” Dimaethor said, bowing. “You’d make easy prey for bandits once your horses grow weary.”
Marc frowned. “How do we know you aren’t a bandit yourself?”
“How often do bandits converse with their prey?” Dimaethor shot back. “Nay, sir. I’m a simple hunter, who was hoping to bring some food back to my family when I was caught in the rain. I know these woods well, and my wife does not expect me for a long while.”
Marc sat back in his saddle, apparently thinking it over. Dimaethor slowly released the tension on the bowstring, setting the arrow back into the quiver on his hip. The bowman off the path disappeared into the trees.
“Answer quickly, sir, and the sooner you shall get to Redgrass,” Dimaethor called.
“Do you see this?” Marc said suddenly, patting the sword on his belt. “It was made by the finest smithy in Brucia. If you should be lying to me, this shall separate your head from your neck.”
“I only live to get my next meal, sir,” Dimaethor said submissively.
“We shall see if that is true,” Marc sniffed. “Lead the way.”
Dimaethor turned on his heel and stepped off the path. Marc and Derrek followed after him.
They were coming.
He could just barely make out the figures through the driving rain. One tall, one fat. They were on horses, hunched over in their saddles. Their hoods hung limply over their faces. Both wore swords.
He tightened his grip on his bow, raising his gaze from the path to a nearby tree. Another figure, hardly more than a boy, sat perched on a thick branch. He tilted his head to the side, questioningly. Dimaethor nodded.
It was time.
Dimaethor kneeled in the ferns, nocking an arrow against the string of his bow. Across the path, he noticed a young man mirroring his movements. Above them, the boy let out a harsh cry, not unlike a raven’s. Three more calls answered.
The larger of the riders stopped. His horse tossed its head in protest. His companion stopped, too, twisting about in his saddle.
“What is it now, Derrek?” he shouted, his voice nearly drowned out in the rain.
“The cries – you think they were bandits?” Derrek called back. His companion’s shoulders slumped. It seemed he’d been asked the question many times.
“First you think a squirrel is a bandit, then a deer. Yes, Derrek, the ravens will also try to take our things.”
“But…but…this is Oakmarsh!” Derrek wailed. “You know the stories, Marc!”
“Yes, yes, I am aware of where we are,” Marc said angrily. “How long have we been in this forest?”
“Nearly three hours…”
“And we haven’t been attacked by bandits, have we?”
“No…”
“So, we’re fine. Now come on, you lily-livered idiot.” Marc snapped. He slammed his heels into his horse’s sides and trotted down the path. Dimaethor found himself smiling as he drew back the bowstring.
If only your words were true, my friend, he thought. He leapt to his feet, stepping onto the path.
“Halt!”
The man named Marc yanked his horse to a stop once again. His companion, who’d been following behind him, whimpered audibly over the sound of the rain.
“You thought to take a shortcut through Oakmarsh, didn’t you?” Dimaethor called. “Where are you heading? These woods may take you along many paths.”
“To Redgrass, sir,” Marc replied in a loud voice. “Now move, so that my companion and I may get to our destination wet and without chill.”
“The way is flooded. Your horses would be swept away by the mud and water. I could show you an easier route,” Dimaethor offered.
“Our horses are strong. I think they can fight a bit of water,” Marc said haughtily.
“Only for a time,” Dimaethor said, bowing. “You’d make easy prey for bandits once your horses grow weary.”
Marc frowned. “How do we know you aren’t a bandit yourself?”
“How often do bandits converse with their prey?” Dimaethor shot back. “Nay, sir. I’m a simple hunter, who was hoping to bring some food back to my family when I was caught in the rain. I know these woods well, and my wife does not expect me for a long while.”
Marc sat back in his saddle, apparently thinking it over. Dimaethor slowly released the tension on the bowstring, setting the arrow back into the quiver on his hip. The bowman off the path disappeared into the trees.
“Answer quickly, sir, and the sooner you shall get to Redgrass,” Dimaethor called.
“Do you see this?” Marc said suddenly, patting the sword on his belt. “It was made by the finest smithy in Brucia. If you should be lying to me, this shall separate your head from your neck.”
“I only live to get my next meal, sir,” Dimaethor said submissively.
“We shall see if that is true,” Marc sniffed. “Lead the way.”
Dimaethor turned on his heel and stepped off the path. Marc and Derrek followed after him.