The horses accelerate to a full gallop, their quavering reflections rippling in the waters of the Path River as they charge along its bank. Tallaset Tarn begins to pull away from Words of the Prelate. Behind them, Samair and El-Mehrik jostle for position. Bonegrit starts to swing Isabellina’s Arrow out wide, hoping to overtake the Qadiran horses whilst they are busy squabbling. Suddenly Samair stumbles and the Arrow smashes into the back of him. Bonegrit and Valos grapple with their mounts; both horses nearly fall but regain their footing as competitors stream past them.
Kellid Mead is really beginning to stretch his pace, carrying his young rider away from Arnisant’s Valour, then nudging past Halamay Eclipsed, and then El-Mehrik. Favourite Arnisant’s Valour can’t seem to match the leaders, or perhaps the horse’s wiley old halfling jockey Dundrin Seventoes is simply pacing his animal.
Samair and Isabellina’s Arrow rediscover their own speed, but now lie joint ninth as they make the dogleg turn towards the Great Golden Oak.
Pyotr stares from the hill, waiting for the first of the leaders to come into view. A young lad with good eyes hailed the crowd from the tops of a stout oak. "There off the line, folks! Looks like Tallaset Tarn and Words of the Prelate got the jump. El-Mahrik's right behind 'em, though! Now, the Tarn's pulling ahead by a no- OH! Isabalina's Arrow just collided with Samair!"
Pyotr could almost feel Dame Ericsdottr's self-satisfied smile...
Bonegrit wheels Isabellina’s Arrow about, and side by side with Samair and Valos, races under the shadow of the Great Golden Oak. The wide boughs of the mighty tree are full of Vigil’s more agile and daring youths, enjoying the thrilling sight of the horses thundering past beneath their dangling feet.
One branch hangs so low Bonegrit has to duck his head at the last moment to avoid it. The smaller horses with smaller riders passed underneath it easily, but the taller half-orc nearly lost his head!
The course turns once again, heading towards the jump over the Ashelflow. Bonegrit spurs Isabellina’s Arrow on, trying to outpace Samair beside him and Enliforis and Peculiar Pasara just ahead.
El-Mehrik
Halamay Eclipsed
Arnisant's Valour
Peculiar Pasara
Tallaset Tarn
Samair
Words of the Prelate
Enliforis
Kellid Mead
Isabellina's Arrow: 27
For the briefest fraction of a breath, Tallaset Tarn seems to waver as he gallops towards the jump. The brave youth on the horse’s back leans low, whispering encouragement into his racing steed’s ear, and Tallaset Tarn flies across the Ashelflow without a pause.
Kaleb’s prediction that the muddy banks would take their toll proves semi-true, but it’s the lighter horses that seem to falter as they take their jump. Bonegrit and the Arrow cross the stream as if it wasn’t even there, pounding past a knot of horses into fifth place, behind Tallaset Tarn, El-Mehrik, Words of the Prelate and Kellid Mead in that order. Halamay Eclipsed and Arnisant’s Valour drop back as Enliforis and Peculiar Pasara gain on them.
Beside Pellius, Kaleb rattles forth a stream of curses in several different languages as Samair swings back into view way down the order in tenth.
"Do ye know where he came across such a fine blade?"
“It’s been in the Ironcoffer family for generations as far as I’m aware. Dierik’s father wielded it in the Crusade, his grandmother too, and I guess the lineage goes back further still.”
Callan listens to Dunagan’s intentions gravely. “Well, the best of luck to you, sir dwarf. Though I hate to think what those stinking orcs have done to Armin’s legacy in the long centuries since he fell.”
Suddenly their conversation is interrupted by a series of high-pitched pops from the strange wagon belonging to Zriorinta the Apothecary. A cloud of thick purple smoke begins billowing from the wagon’s little chimney, and the shrill yowling of cats sounds from within. Then, its little red door bursts open, gouting more purple smoke, four spluttering grey cats, and Zriorinta herself.
Her multi-coloured gypsy dress seems to smouldering about the edges, and she carries a billowing cloak which is being engulfed in bright emerald flames. As the flames take further hold, the cloak seems to dissolve rather than burn, and Zriorinta beats ineffectually at them with her hands.
El Mehrik
Halamay Eclipsed
Arnisant's Valour
Peculiar Pasara
Tallaset Tarn
Samair
Words of the Prelate
Enliforis
Kellid Mead
Isabellina's Arrow: 12
All horses in Lastwall, even those bred for racing, must be prepared to bear their riders into combat when in need. At least, that’s the philosophy behind the final stretch of the course, between the Ashelflow jump and the Turning Post. Called simply the Shying, here enthusiastic teams of Vigilants, called the Spookers, line the track and do whatever they can to distract the passing racers.
Beating drums and rattles, waving snapping flags of vibrant colours, shouting and screaming, even letting off the odd thunderstone, none of it affects Tallaset Tarn as drives on past the Spookers. Behind him, El-Mehrik is up into second, starting to show the speed that led him to victory in seven previous Strander Stakes. Words of the Prelate and Kellid Mead follow, then Isabellina’s Arrow, who’s starting to fall back into the clutches of Halamay Eclipsed and Arnisant’s Valour. Enliforis follows, with Samair close behind. Peculiar Pasara leads the rest of the pack.
The Spookers do their work though; a trailing mare stops up short, throwing her rider as confusion of the Shying overwhelms her.
Kaleb excuses himself and waddles down the hill to talk to a short, scarred man who is limping along the side of the race course in the direction of the Great Golden Oak. Pellius recognises two other men who walk past them and start to make their way up the knoll towards where Second Master Santrian is seated. One of the two is the straggle-bearded half-elf Pellius saw tending Isabellina’s Arrow before the race began. The other, though older (and perhaps a little shorter than he seemed in Pellius’ childhood memories) is unmistakeable as Dierik Ironcoffer.
Santrian and Dierik talk for a moment, the Second Master indicating up the hill to where Pellius is seated. Dierik nods, turns and raises his arm in greeting. He’s just a touch too far away to make out Pellius’ facial features, and doesn’t recognise him.
The Trail Captain takes a seat on the grass with Santrian, the half-elf, a tall, blonde woman in a black and white dress (Kyla Fylessi), a lithe dark-haired youth (Delkaneth), and a handful of guards from his caravan.
Dunagan jumps from his perch on the edge of the wagon and twists his head towards the loud pops. Seeing Zriorinta exit her three-wheeled carriage he shouts, "Are ye alright lass?!" He walks over and offers to help, "Let me see. Are you burned?... And the cats?"
"I remember when I was younger, when my beard first grew in. It was the finest, mightiest beard I had ever seen. I grew it longer and longer, and each day became more and more prideful. I gloated and touted it over the other dwarven youths. Thinking myself nigh invincible with a beard that could have only been gifted by Torag, I went about my business carelessly. One day, while working the forge, I knelt down to fan the bellows and POOF," Dunagan runs his hands up into the air from the bottom of his beard to his ears emulating the course of the fire. "My beard went up in smoke as it made contact with the hot coals. The forge never smelled the same after that day. Hopefully no hair, cat or your own caught on fire in there. It's impossible to get the smell out!"
Pellius wasn't thinking of having to meet his new boss before the race was over but Samair wasn't in the lead by any means and there would be plenty of time to cheer him on later, besides he is curious to see of Dierik recognized him.
He makes his way down the hill and nods to Santrain before getting in front of Dierik. The magus extends his hand in greeting, "A pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Pellius."
Seeing that Dierik was still struggling with his memory, he quickly adds, "Pellius Fullonna, sir. Son of Gellius Fullonna originally from Cheliax..."
El-Mehrik
Halamay Eclipsed
Arnisant's Valour
Peculiar Pasara
Tallaset Tarn
Samair
Words of the Prelate
Enliforis
Kellid Mead
Isabellina's Arrow: 24
"Pellius Fullonna, sir. Son of Gellius Fullonna originally from Cheliax..."
Dierik is already nodding, that dazzling smile back on his face, “Yes, yes, Pellius. Never fear, I recognise you alright. There aren’t many in Vigil of less than seventy winters with hair like that! Still, the scar, you certainly didn’t have that when last I saw you. An orcish blade, I’ll wager. My sympathies on your father’s passing; I hoped to meet him again, but the world turns without our consent. Still, I hope he found some contentment, and some freedom, here in Lastwall.”
It seems that Santrian has yet to mention the fate of Pellius’ brother. “I see the Sword Mark on your hand. What drives you to pledge your service to me? And what of Tharxes? A soldier too?”
Delkaneth keeps a careful eye on the spectators scattered around his group as Dierik talks with his newest hireling. Further from the Henswain, the crowds have dispersed into small groups of family and friends. Loose bands of people are seated every five to ten yards or so, chatting, sharing out snacks and tankards, and surging to their feet to cheer as the horses pass by. No-one seems to have marked Dierik, and if they’ve recognised him, they pay him no heed for now.
Something curious does pass Delkaneth’s ears though. An odd couple hustle past hurriedly; one a plump, middle-aged halfling who was previously sitting beside the man who now talks with Dierik. The other is human, limping from an old wound with an unpretty face further ruined by the scars of three claws marring his right profile.
Delkaneth makes out a few snatches muttered by the halfling, the man just nods silently;
“Samair . . . running poorly . . . too much coin to loose . . . under the oak is best . . . you know what to . . .”
The man continues on, moving as fast as his limp will allow. The fat halfling’s stops, watches him go for a few seconds, then puffs back up the hill to watch the race continue.
Back on the track, the race is hotting up. Tallaset Tarn is the first to the Turning Post, executing a neat turn that puts him into the face of the following horses. He finds a clear stretch on the cart road and surges back the way he came. His rider’s long black hair swirls as Halamay Eclipsed, Isabellina’s Arrow and Arnisant’s Valour speed past in the opposite direction. El-Mehrik has already made the turn, is starting to haul in the leader.
Halamay Eclipsed, Isabellina’s Arrow and Arnisant’s Valour are on the move. As a close-running trio, they surge past Kellid Mead, then catch Words of the Prelate. The reach the Turning Post with the Arrow leading, but as the horses swing around Halamay Eclipsed dives ahead into third, with Isabellina’s Arrow fourth and Arnisant’s Valour fifth.
Further back, Samair has overtaken Enliforis but Valos’ steed still trails the leaders by some margin.
"Pellius Fullonna, sir. Son of Gellius Fullonna originally from Cheliax..."Dierik is already nodding, that dazzling smile back on his face, “Yes, yes, Pellius. Never fear, I recognise you alright. There aren’t many in Vigil of less than seventy winters with hair like that! Still, the scar, you certainly didn’t have that when last I saw you. An orcish blade, I’ll wager. My sympathies on your father’s passing; I hoped to meet him again, but the world turns without our consent. Still, I hope he found some contentment, and some freedom, here in Lastwall.”
The magus is happy to see that he was remembered. "It's good to see you again, sir. You haven't changed a bit." His hand goes to his eye and caresses the ugly scar there. "You mean this? Oh yes, it was one of those serrated edged daggers and we were deep in orc country so I couldn't see a healer in time to remove the scar.. it's Ok though, I wear it as a war badge and that orc will no longer hurt anyone."
He turns somber at the mention of his father, "Thank you. sir; my father would have wanted to thank you again for all you did for our family. I know he found peace here and worked right up to his last days in the cathedral."
It seems that Santrian has yet to mention the fate of Pellius’ brother. “I see the Sword Mark on your hand. What drives you to pledge your service to me? And what of Tharxes? A soldier too?”
Pellius continues, "Tharxes is a large part of why I want to accompany you, sir. He is a soldier and a scout, sir. You see we were ambushed a couple of months ago and he was taken prisoner. I'm hoping that I find some clue as to his whereabouts as I travel with your caravan. But my pledge is to you and this job first, sir."
The magus then waits to see if his job offers is in any danger.
El-Mehrik
Halamay Eclipsed
Arnisant's Valour
Peculiar Pasara
Tallaset Tarn
Samair
Words of the Prelate
Enliforis
Kellid Mead
Isabellina's Arrow: 46
El-Mehrik, the famous Qadiran brown, continues to accelerate, closing down on Tallaset Tarn in the lead. Contemptuously ignoring the clamour of the Spookers, they run the length of the Shying to the Ashelflow. Tallaset Tarn leaps gracefully across, but El-Mehrik is not far behind.
The Qadiran’s halfling rider shouts encouragement as El-Mehrik reaches the bank, but as the muscles under the horse’s gather themselves to jump, a hoof slips on the mud, and the jump transforms into a terrible, plunging fall! El-Mehrik’s jockey tumbles to the dirt, covering his head from his horse’s flailing hooves.
By the time Halamay Eclipsed, Isabellina’s Arrow and Arnisant’s Valour reach the Ashelflow, El-Mehrik is already trotting away from the course, eyes rolling in distress, whilst his rider stands beside the track, hurling his gloves to the ground in frustration.
One of the favourites might be gone, but the others are beginning to show their strength. Tallaset Tarn still leads by a comfortable margin, but Halamay Eclipsed is in second and moving faster and faster. This distinctive horse is pitch black but for her face, which is ghost white to the ears. Astride her, a young lass with a long, whipping ponytail whipping out behind her yells unceasing encouragement.
As Bonegrit passes once again under the shadow of the Great Golden Oak, he loses a place to Dundrin Seventoes and Arnisant’s Valour. The veteran jockey is starting to demonstrate his racecraft, and the bay-brown Vigilant Courser beneath him his swiftness.
Not far behind Bonegrit, Words of the Prelate is refusing to let the leaders leave him in the dust, valiantly forging on.
Further back, Enliforis repasses Samair, putting the remaining Qadiran down to eighth.
Delkaneth makes his way along the edge of the race track in the wake of the limping man. The scattered clumps of onlookers lining the edge of the course don’t give Del the cover he’d like, but for the most part his quarry’s attention seems fixed on the race. Tallaset Tarn thunders past in the lead and a great cheer goes up about him.
The limper hobbles around the edge of the Escarpment, where the tumbled boulders block the view of most of the course. Here the race track skirts the edge of the pool made by the Ashelflow emptying into the Path River. Halamay Eclipsed tears past, then Arnisant’s Valour just ahead of Isabellina’s Arrow and Del’s companion Bonegrit.
In the shadow of the Great Golden Oak the limper halts, his scarred, weasely face staring intently up the course, in the direction of the Turning Post.
There are a fair few spectators here, for although much of the track is obscured, there is a good view of the Ashelflow jump. Most of the onlookers are teenagers, sat on the larger branches of the oak or atop the boulders of the Escarpment. Nearby a young dandy reclines with a buxom maiden, the lass capturing far more of his interest than the unfolding race. About fifty yards away, Delkaneth can see Pyotr ambling along the edge of the track, making his way towards the Chelaxian.
The dappled grey Words of the Prelate gallops by, followed shortly after the honey-coloured Kellid Mead. A moment later, Enliforis and Samair come hurtling up the road, shoulder to shoulder:
The man stares intently at Samair as the Qadiran passes. In the shadows of his dark cloak, you see long fingers wriggling furtively, and he appears to be muttering beneath his breath. It’s clear he’s casting some kind of spell.
Dunagan scrambles over to Zriorinta. By the time he reaches her, the cloak is just a sludgy, smoldering mess on the ground, and the Varisian is whimpering, clutching her scorched hands.
The dwarf’s prayer of healing soon fixes the damage, allowing her to wipe away her tears of pain. Taking a deep breath, Zriorinta composes herself, kicking the remains of the cloak in frustration.
“Motherless goat of all motherless goats,” she curses “I give up on this cloak. Its magic is supposed to resist fire, but now that’s the third time the dweomer’s gone up in smoke.” She looks around her at the dispersing mauve haze. “Purple smoke,” she adds.
Then she remembers herself “Thank you,” she tells Dunagan, rather shyly. “The cats are fine.”
As Dunagan recounts the tale of his beard catching a light, Zriorinta stifles her chuckles.
“Well Master Dwarf,” she replies “I can assure you that the arcane smells of magic forging gone awry can create a stench far greater than even a burnt dwarf’s beard! And that’s the least you need worry about. Still, let me say, the beard you wear now, shorter though it may be, is fine and magnificent.”
A momentary awkward silence ensues, and Zriorinta’s dark eyes flicker to her cats, which watch the pair like a quartet of grey sphinxes.
Dierik listens earnestly to the news of Tharxes, the concern written plainly upon his face.
“You pledge yourself to me, and I to the legacy of my friendship with Gellius. If there is anything I can do to help find and free your brother I will do it, do not fear.” For a moment he pauses, his eyes following the white shape of Isabellina’s Arrow as she races along the foot of the track at the foot of the slope. “I remember your brother as a lad of pluck and cunning. Maybe he’s under the grim yoke of orcish slavery, but he’ll weather it until his brother comes to rescue him.”
“We will leave with the dawn tomorrow. But for now, put aside your worries and enjoy the race. Who are you backing? Feel welcome to sit with us and enjoy some cardamom cakes and some company.”
Further up the slope, Kaleb has returned to the spot he was sharing with Pellius and waves to the magus.
Halamay Eclipsed
Arnisant's Valour
Peculiar Pasara
Tallaset Tarn
Samair
Words of the Prelate
Enliforis
Kellid Mead
Isabellina's Arrow: 58
Tallaset Tarn completes the second lap, twisting about the smaller turning post at the Henswain to the roar of the packing crowd gathered about the finishing line.
Now the Strander Stakes become much more difficult. The competing horses are spread out across the field, many of them now galloping at full speed in different directions dependent on their position in the contest. The jockeys must guide their mounts with complete confidence, not sacrificing speed for a moment whilst realising a head-on collision with another horse could be fatal for all involved.
Luck favoured Tallaset Tarn with El-Mehrik’s surprise exit, but the stallion’s place in the lead looks far from assured. Slowly but surely, Arnisant’s Valour is reeling him in, and by the time the leading pair pass through the Shying for a third time, the two Vigilant Coursers are only a length apart.
Some way back from the leading pair, Isabellina’s Arrow and Halamay Eclipsed spend virtually the whole lap shoulder to shoulder. The striking-looking mare’s freckle faced rider looks across at Bonegrit with a sneer.
“A monstrosity like you has no place upon such a beautiful stallion,” she shouts “And you won’t get ahead of Halamay Eclipsed!”
However, the lass’ words prove false, as the Arrow’s sure footing at the Ashelflow jump allows them to move up into third, although Halamay Eclipsed and the obnoxious brat goading her on remain right on Bonegrit’s tail.
Words of the Prelate’s early speed seems to be evaporating, and the dappled grey starts heading backwards through pack. Kellid Mead thunders past, with Samair gaining rapidly. Enliforis also slips back, and Peculiar Pasara starts to challenge the faltering palamino.
As the horses make the turn, Pyotr feels the excitement of the moment gripping him. Dame Ericsdottr was certainly as well informed as she believed she was, as Tallaset Tarn races ahead, with El-Marik, Arnisant's Valour, and Isabalina's Arrow fast pacing him. Then, almost as if preordained by the Dame, El-Mahrik's day ends in disaster at the Ashelflow.
When the racers make the turn at the Oak, Pyotr is already running to get a view of the finish line. Following the spectacle of the race, his eyes pass right over the limping man without taking in the significance of his actions.
Dierik listens earnestly to the news of Tharxes, the concern written plainly upon his face.
“You pledge yourself to me, and I to the legacy of my friendship with Gellius. If there is anything I can do to help find and free your brother I will do it, do not fear.” For a moment he pauses, his eyes following the white shape of Isabellina’s Arrow as she races along the foot of the track at the foot of the slope. “I remember your brother as a lad of pluck and cunning. Maybe he’s under the grim yoke of orcish slavery, but he’ll weather it until his brother comes to rescue him.”
Pellius nodded his thanks, "Thank you, sir and your help and resourcefulness are more than appreciated. I feel the same way about my brother; if anyone can survive out there it'd be Tharxes."
“We will leave with the dawn tomorrow. But for now, put aside your worries and enjoy the race. Who are you backing? Feel welcome to sit with us and enjoy some cardamom cakes and some company.”
Further up the slope, Kaleb has returned to the spot he was sharing with Pellius and waves to the magus.
"Thanks again but I'm well aware that we leave tomorrow so there are things that I need to do before then. With your permission, I'd like to get back to a friend who will take care of some of my things here in Vigil while I'm gone. I'll take a rain check on the cakes."
With that, the magus heads over to Kaleb to finish watching the race.
The ire in Halamay's rider seems to have little outward impact on Bonegrit, though the warning does force his mind to a less savory implication: he's an insult to those arrayed before and behind. Bonegrit's eyes survey the crowd and track ahead for anything suspicious. He seems to study the low-hanging branch intently on each pass, perhaps wary of a convenient accident that might remove he and Arrow from the race.
Bonegrit barely spares a glance to the rider that sought to insult him, instead leaning forward atop Arrow and whispering encouragements into the stallion's ears. "She's right - I don't deserve this honor. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let her prediction ring true." Isabellina's Arrow continues thundering across the track, and Bonegrit arches his back so that his face is nearly level with the horse's left ear. "This is your race and not mine. Show 'em how wrong they are about this nancy lot and their supposed speed. Show 'em the true meaning of grace and swiftness. Fly!" The half-orc relaxes his grip and posture and trusts Isabellina's Arrow to find the means.
"I'm not even sure I know what you are trying to do. Who would want a cloak for an oven mitt...?"
Im rushing to meet my fiend
The limping man comes to a stop beneath the spreading branches of the Great Golden Oak. As Samair and Enliforis come galloping up the track, the man seems to muttering some kind of spell. Delkaneth sprints forward, feigning in clumsy blunder into the fellow as he dashes past, calling to Pyotr like a long-lost friend.
He doesn’t see whether he succeeded in disrupting the man’s casting but a furious stare follows him despite the apology he hurls over his shoulder. Once Delkaneth reaches Pyotr, the limper looks away, no doubt noticing the half-orc bears Iomedae’s symbol. Nonetheless, he continues to stand idly next to the race track.
In a hushed voice, Delkaneth explains to Pyotr what he heard and saw.
.
Kaleb’s confidence in Samair’s form is quickly dissolving as the race progresses. Pellius and the rotund halfling watch as the Qadiran falls behind Enliforis again, only to push past him once more as the horses head back towards the Henswain in the final stages of the second lap. This midfield squabble is certainly far from the glorious dominance Kaleb was predicting before the race began.
Kaleb seems in a strange mood. He’s clearly worried – by the way he’s sweating Pellius guesses he put more gold than he can afford on Samair – but he also seems to be waiting for something to happen. His eyes flicker along the race course, darting from Samair’s swift form to the crown of the Great Golden Oak, which is just visible, peeking over the tallest ridge of the Escarpment, from where the pair sit.
Kaleb’s confidence in Samair’s form is quickly dissolving as the race progresses. Pellius and the rotund halfling watch as the Qadiran falls behind Enliforis again, only to push past him once more as the horses head back towards the Henswain in the final stages of the second lap. This midfield squabble is certainly far from the glorious dominance Kaleb was predicting before the race began.
The magus is beaming knowing tomorrow starts the search for his brother. He quickly forgots about the silver he seems about to lose in the race. Seeing Kaleb's frown, he follows the halfling's gaze to see Samair struggling in the middle of the pack.
Pellius jokingly slaps the ex-jockey's shoulder, "Well, I hope you taught Valos to save his best for last. Is he going to turn it on now or wait for the last lap?"
Pyotr spins to the sound of his name. A slight frown creases his brow. A human racing towards him, waving frantically to get his attention, suddenly collides with an older man under the boughs of the Great Oak.
Pyotr's frown increases slightly, as he wonders who would be in such a state to find him. But, the younger man hurries past the other, muttering a perfunctory apology, and running up the slope to meet him.
This is one of my companions from the caravan. A new hireling, like me. "Greetings, sir. It is... Delkaneth, if I recall correctly. How may I be of service?"
It only requires a moment for Delkaneth to spell out the situation. Pyotr nods solemnly, though his frown deepens even further.
"You did well, Delkaneth. But, suspicion of intent is no crime. Perhaps, he may yet choose the right path for himself. Let us encourage him in that regard." Pyotr begins a measured walk down the hill, towards the limping man.
"A moment, good sir." Pyotr holds up a hand in greetings, the Sword Mark plain against his palm. "I saw your unfortunate encounter with my companion, here. I hope he did you no injury. But, you seem to be limping. An old injury aggravated by my acquaintance's carelessness, perhaps? How unfortunate! Please allow me to offer apologies on his behalf. I have some small standing with the clerics of the Cathedral. Perhaps, I could arrange for you to receive some treatment for your wound."
"I am new to the races, though I begin to understand their appeal. Have you a favorite in this event? On the advice of a very respectable and knowledgeable lady, I have placed my hopes upon Tallaset Tarn. Of course, it doesn't take an experienced veteran to recognize that 'first' is a preferable position in which to be."
Pyotr continues speaking to the limping man, reciting some of the knowledge imparted to him by Dame Ericsdottr intermixed with some of his own observations of the race. He spends some time recounting his view of the disastrous fall of El-Mahrik at the Ashelflow.
Isabellina's Arrow seems to understand Bonegrit's meaning, and the marvelous steed's legs begin quaking the earth beneath the pair in a blur of alacrity and power. Bonegrit's expression of gratitude and exhileration tinges with a slight worry, however, and Arrow heeds Bonegrit's words a little too literally. The white stallion whips around the Henswain with an almost reckless abandon, and Bonegrit is forced to momentarily tense and regain his footing in the stirrups to avoid being left behind with the turn. The half-orc lets out a couple of uneasy chuckles - now he fully appreciates the majesty of the creature he has been allowed to ride.
Turning into the fifth lap, Bonegrit spots the growing length of stragglers behind the front runners, stretched out before him and oncoming with as much desperation and fervor as he himself is pouring into the race. "Careful, now! Swing wide. Swing wide! Arrow, swing wide!"
Isabellina's Arrow releases what might be a derisive snort at his rider's direction, and barrels ahead straight into the oncoming riders and their diminutive horses, forcing the competitors to alter course or risk being ridden down by the white behemoth seeking to gain full command of the track. Bonegrit hunkers down atop Arrow, hugging close to the mount's neck as he braces for what seems like, but is fortunately not, a head-on collision with another rider. A thunder of hooves still resonates from the ground beneath him as Isabellina's Arrow plows further ahead. The half-orc finds his mind wandering back to the words Dierik had spoken to him when first he was allowed to ride the brute - it's like riding on the wind itself.
For a brief stretch of the track, the half-orc cannot help but grin and indulge, leaning his head back and raising arms outward to feel the rushing breeze coolly kiss the sweat that has begun forming along his brows and neck. The revelry looks like it might cost the rider his seat as Arrow pounds a path towards the Ashelflow once again, but he snaps back to reality and leans forward with Isabellina's Arrow again.
The man turns at Pyotr’s approach. His injuries are not only confined to his limp; his face, which to be fair probably had little in the way of loveliness, has been near demolished on the right hand side by three parallel scars; as if some clawed beast had done its best to tear his face off somewhere in the past. He is dressed in dirty, nondescript clothes, most notably a dark, heavy, leather cloak. He carries a thin dagger thrust unsheathed through his worn black belt.
At the sight of Pyotr’ Sword Mark the man scratches his scalp uncomfortably, and Pyotr’s litany of questions provoke a scowl upon his brow. However, he doesn’t go anywhere. In the main, his responses are little more than grunts, though a couple of times the half-orc succeeds in eliciting a longer response.
Perhaps, I could arrange for you to receive some treatment for your wound."
“Hur, the clerics I’ve met ‘av bin good enough at healing a red-runnin’ wound, but when an old injury’s set bad there don’t seem a lot they can do.”
I have placed my hopes upon Tallaset Tarn.
“Hur, I put me money on the Tarn aswell.” This claim is underlined as false, for Tallaset Tarn gallops by on his third lap even as the man is speaking, and he doesn’t bat an eyelid.
As Pyotr slowly recounts his opinions on El-Mehrik’s disastrous fall, the man’s terse returns dwindle to nothing more than limp “hurs” as his squinting eyes dart towards the track. Kellid Mead storms past them, followed closely by Samair.
The man mouths something that looks suspiciously like “Besmara’s sweaty cleat,” but with the Sword Marked half-orc right in front of him, is helpless to do more.
Scratching his scalp furiously, and involuntarily glancing down the course at Samair’s departing rump, he stutters:
“Hur, anyways, I ‘avta go un meet me friends.”
He turns and starts to limp away in the direction of the Ashelflow.