What blood was wrought from me and mine, I have taken back tenfold.
The quill in his always-gloved hand fell still. The light from the campfire flickered sedately, casting an evening hue well after midnight. It was the first night in fourteen months and five days he hadn't kissed the bottle.
He stared down at his own writing, lifted the nib to dip to more ink, then carried on with more fervour.
It still isn't enough. Rather than dissolve, my purpose has only come into me like a storming tide. I expect such ferocity will grow in time. Yet here I have come, outnumbered and chased like a wolf by the hounds.
They will remember my name at home, that is certain.
The man's eyes flickered hazel, both bright and dark in the firelight. He glanced across the fire to the two newly stolen horses. Unimpressive, but far more sturdy than the nag he'd made do with previously.
Not far away, a small lean-to housed the stowaway. The night was so still he could hear the sound of her breathing in sleep. It roused uninvited memories of his young wife and he promptly threw a fistful of dry leaves and twigs into the fire just for the sake of breaking the quietitude.
I have three horses, and the relic bracelet being sought by primitive historians nearby. There are, supposedly, settlements more established than these outlying huts, less than a tenday's ride from us.
We will make soon for the village called Herne. There, these horses should fetch us at least some coin. And new contacts.
It was no use. He closed the book with agitation, not caring the wet ink would smudge and later stick together the pages of fine paper.
His restlessness only grew, and he knew the real reason he was seeking towns in the middle of nowhere was to replenish his supply of liquor.
