Long and untrimmed fingernails brush up against the bark of a soggy tree as tall and bare fingers fumble with a rope to tie it in a secure but undefined knot. The rope follows back up to the horse it holds, and the black Clydesdale gives Stitches an unamused neigh, follow with a huff and a trod of the ground with a frustrated hoof.
Stitches shakes his head and approaches his companion, patting the side of his steed's face as he observes the animal with dark and tired eyes, "I can't go running after you today, Bread. I've to get moving, I've spent too long already on the other things." He claims quietly.
Stitches moves his shaking fingers to the clasp that holds the sword to his back, he had not eaten yet. Once he relinquishes himself of the weapon, he straps it onto his horse saddle, next to his scythe, which his eyes dart briefly towards to check the blade sheath he had a local leather smith craft for him, and grumbles to himself about the price of such a custom holster. He observes his new weapon, the long slim sword called an estoc, that he had acquired not long ago buried beneath some dirt and grass while searching once again near the place where he had lost his friend. The place he had begun to wonder if he had lost his mind as well. But such thoughts don't align.
Stitches turns back towards the mass of trees before him and unslings the bow from his shoulder, another piece of equipment that severely ran down his coin purse in weight. He had practiced once or twice before, but it wasn't looking like it would be his first choice to use. His right hand reaches behind him for an arrow from his quiver as he sets his eyes on a plump looking tree trunk, somewhere between twenty to twenty five meters from him, his left hand wrapping around the bow grip firmly. He raises the arrow, and with a grunt of discomfort, sets the nock of the arrow around the string. With a deep inhale, he slowly draws back until the arrow head is nearly at the front of his index finger. He holds his breath, focusing down the shaft of the arrow at his target tree, setting the shaft of the bow in his vision ever so slightly to the right of the center of the trunk, and he pauses. His eyes narrow as his mind replaces the bark and wood with another form, the form of a man in a dark tunic with a knife strapped to his back. The edges of his vision begin to tunnel and the air around him goes gray. His teeth clench, and just before his hands begin to shake, just before he can feel his breath swelling inside him, ready to burst, and just before he can feel his fingers on the grip as though they wrap around flesh like a strangling sensation, his right fingers release and send the arrow flying.
As the arrow flings forth, he audibly lets out an angry and repressed grunt. The arrow itself responds with a brief but solid crack as it splits the outer layer of bark to impale the wooden core of the tree. It's nowhere near the center of the tree, certainly not where he was aiming, but it would suffice.
"Better..." Whispers a voice from behind him near his tied up mount, and he turns to face what appears to be the apparition of cloak hiding all of a man but the bottom of his face.
The voice matches the one that spoke to him when he had addressed Eogar on quitting the farm and leaving Bree. His chin, jawline and mouth are familiar, but the fact that he is surrounded by a surreal haze gives Stitches the wisdom to know what it is, and quickly he bumps his forehead with his own gloved palm, and the vision leaves him by the time his eyes reopen from an accompanied blink. Still, the chill on his arms turns his head left and right to look, and even behind him in a twinge of paranoia. His growing fingernails tap on the wood of the bow, as he looks to Bread with a nod, "More sleep, don't let me forget." He croaks in a whisper, "Less worrying of silly hallucinations."
With a burst of self frustration and determination, he swiftly swings up another arrow, and again fumbles with the nock and string.
