Stagwell lifted himself carefully from the saddle, slipping down onto the wet grass. It was a cool evening - their was a dampness about the air, but it was more irritating than refreshing. Clapping a hand appreciatively against the side of the horse, he tied it loosely to a nearby tree trunk, leaving it to nuzzle the grass. Turning, he wandered forward warily, lowering himself into a crouch and peering into the darkness. Light was filtering away swiftly, as day retired and evening fully emerged. Despite the worsening visibility, it was unmistakable in the distance. The fallen stone pillars, now plunged unceremoniously into the mud, the collapsed walls surrounded by rotting wood. Ost Baranor.
Stagwell perched upon a small mound, raised around a hundred meters away from the ruin. His heart knocked anxiously against his chest, but he did not turn away. It was a sad sight to behold. What was left of the ruin was now infested with brigands, violated beyond repair. Blackwolds could be seen everywhere. Their fires burned long into the night, sending columns of smoke into the breeze. Wet clothes and equipment hung on poorly constructed wooden beams, and the sound of hoarse, brash laughter resounded through the ruin. They had claimed Ost Baranor as their own, and nothing was preventing them from extending their stay.
Stagwell inhaled a deep breath of cool, evening air, realizing his temper was flaring. He was not entirely sure why he visited the spot so often. It did not calm him, did not help him come to terms with the situation. It only angered him, only helped him visualize the night Lord Forester had lost his life with disturbing clarity. His hand often hovered above his sword hilt, brushing the leather strap temptingly, but the blade was never unsheathed.
"It is not the time." he would whisper to himself, watching Blackwold silhouettes move confidently within the ruin, their shadows flung across the crumbling stone walls.
"Not yet."
