The sun was rising over the Kingsfell, the birds were singing, and the warm breeze rustled the grass and leaves in the trees bright flowers covered the hills and crops were tall in the farm fields. Outside the farmhouse of one such homestead, a man was going about his chores. He slowly turned the handle of the wheel, hauling up a bucket of water while he appears somewhat frustrated, muttering angrily the whole time. He is dressed well, at least for a farmer. His clothes are tailored and colourful, more befitting a merchant than a peasant. Perhaps that would explain his distaste at his current chore. He heaves the bucket up, removes it from the rope and starts carrying it inside, cursing again when he splashes his trousers.
A woman stands at the door of their farmhouse, equally well dressed, yet much happier and content. She smiles as he approaches, and reaches for his hand and mumbling something to him before leaning up to kiss his cheek. He smiles at this and nods his agreement, saying something back with a slight laugh. Joking perhaps. They both smile and head back inside.
Fuck that looks boring. Taraborn thinks to himself as he watches. He was lying in a bush, overlooking the farmhouse from a short distance. Most of his armour was hidden away at his makeshift camp about a mile away, and he was dressed only in dark leathers. His face, he had covered in wet mud which was now a dry mask, preventing them spotting him. About his clothes, he had tucked tufts of grass, helping him blend into the surroundings and remain hidden in the bush. Why would anyone want to live life like that? He wonders, truly amazed that people could be happy without some sort of adventure and excitement.
He spends the rest of the day watching the farm, moving about it to different locations and watching from angle. When done in one position, he would crawl backwards out of his hiding spot, keeping his eye on the house. He’d back out till out of sight and then would make his way round the farm, spending a couple of hours in each spot. He ate dried meat and waybread to sustain himself, spending most of the day and much of the night watching the farm house. Around midnight, he crawls out of sight of the camp and makes the march back to his camp under the stars.
Sat beside a small stream, he washes himself of the mud and grime of a day crawling in the mud, the cold water refreshing and welcome. He doesn’t build a fire afterwards. Despite his sheltered position he didn’t want to attract any undue attention and it was warm enough to go without.
He lays out his bedroll atop a thick layer of ferns he had lain down the previous day and lies down, ready for sleep.
Yet it would not come. Every time he closes his eyes her face floated into vision, as though she were there beside him. Her voice mimicked by the wind, teasing him with thoughts of her presence. Yet she was not there, and she would not come. She was away South, likely in a similar camp deep in the Chetwood.
He thinks back to her letter. How she couldn’t settle down with him, and how neither a house and children would be in their future. He wants to laugh. If what he had seen today was anything to go by that was nothing of interest to him. He couldn’t spend his life like that, even if that was what she desired.
What was life if it wasn’t exciting? What was life without some risk, some daring chances? It just wasn’t in him to live like that. Nor was it in Narys as she had told him. So why couldn’t they remain together and adventure together?
Taraborn huffs and rolls onto his back, looking up through the tree tops to the stars twinkling above him. Maybe she was looking up at the same stars right now. Somehow the thought comforted him. A wisp of cloud blocks out the stars for a moment, and he lets out a sigh. Perhaps she wasn’t, perhaps she was doing something else entirely. He rolls over onto his side again, closing his eyes as he tries to force sleep once more.
Deep in the night, after much contemplation, he finally got the much needed sleep but unfortunately dreamt of her.
He awoke the next day, with the sun already most of the way to its zenith. Time to pack up camp and go. He packs up his bedroll, tying it to the top of his pack before donning his armour and pulling his pack onto his back. He looks about the camp and kicks the ferns around, so it looked more natural and less disturbed before trudging out of the dell.
The ride to the farm is short, but pleasant in the warm summer air. The wind fresh on his cheeks and the sun warm. Outside the farm, he dismounts and dons his helmet whilst out of view. Hobbling his horse, he gets down onto his belly and crawls towards the farmhouse. He crawls till he runs out of cover, and stands to cover the open ground. There was less chance of being noticed early, so less chance of his targets escaping. By the time he reached the door, there was no sign of people in the house worrying, or trying to escape. This was the only door, and he was certain he would hear any attempts to get out by the windows. He contemplates his options, and smiles sadistically.
The door crashes inwards after a heavy kick from his booted foot, and he strides into the house as the woman screams in the next room. Somewhere in the distance outside he hears a man yelling and getting closer.
He strides into the next room, and the woman cowers away from him, yelling for him to stop, to leave them be, they had done nothing, they would give him whatever he wanted. He can’t help but chuckle slightly. “Yer husband,” He grunts as he grabs her hair and drags her to the back of the room away from the doorway, “sent me with a gift fer you an’ ‘is brother.” She goes still, breathing heavily as this registers before her struggles begin anew, tears streaming down her face.
A moment later, the man he had seen the day before rushes into the room, a short sword in hand. Taraborn could see the resemblance between him and his client. It couldn’t have been looks that drove the woman into her brother-in-law’s bed. Personality? Money? What had driven Narys to Dagramir? He removes these thoughts from his head, it was in the past and right now he had a job to do.
“LET HER GO!” He shouts. Even his voice was similar.
“Your brother sends his regards.” He says simply and brings his dirk down in a sweep. The woman’s body hits the floor first, followed a second later by her head.
“NO!” The man rushes him with his short sword, hacking and slashing angrily as tears stream down his face. Taraborn steps past most, parrying the rest. It was a game, cat and mouse. He was the cat playing with its food till he eventually grew bored of the game, his target was beginning to slow, his exhaustion showing. His dirk came down again, and a head rolled across the floor.
He dumps the two heads into a bag, packing it out with wet mud to keep them from rotting on the journey back to his client, and then ransacks the house. Any finery, coin, or fancy clothes he took, packing away whatever he could find. After all he had been told it would be his.
The ride back was uneventful as he didn’t stay in Trestlebridge long, just enough time to restock his supplies and continue South to Bree. He wasn’t sure how people would react if they found what he was carrying. His mind was occupied for much of the ride, and he barely noticed the miles flying by. He spent a lot of time thinking about the job. He hadn’t enjoyed killing the woman, but she was a liar and an adulterer, she had it coming. Narys had come back to him, told him all and repented, he had forgiven her after that. But he could never forgive Dagramir, and the two people he had just killed had been unrepentant. They deserved what he had given them and he might have done it anyway even if he wasn’t being paid. It felt like justice.
The next time he saw Narys it would be with a lighter heart.
