"I am a little wary, no offense Mr. Thistle, but it was not too long ago you were, shall we say, lost to the world. You mentioned a troubling dream. Perhaps if you tell us a little more about that."
Henry was wary of Thistle, too, and was grateful when Doc vocalised his own concern before them all. The once Mad-man had been on his best behaviour, if you could call staring off into space and meandering around someone's best. However, there had been no violent outbursts or attacks made by the man on himself or the other deputies.
"Yes, Thistle, details. And do not meander through the story. Just tell us what was so strange about the dream as succinctly as possible. We do not have time to waste."
Sighing slightly, Thistle seems to accept the decision without objection.
"Details, you say. Succinctly, you say. I'll remind you that this is...was a dream, and as dreams are wont to do, the details may be fuzzy, but I'll retell what I do remember."
Zachariah turns away.
Clearing his throat and putting his hands behind his back he pauses, and looks up at the sky. He takes a few deep breaths and then turns, his eyes now alight with the closest thing Smith (or anyone for that matter) has seen to madness in quite some time. (at least from Thistle himself)
"I was alone, in the black of night, here...but the Town was blown away, almost erased. The only sign that humankind had ever been was the roads, solitary and desolate. There were no stars, no moon, but somehow I could see. I felt a weight about me...like my chains...no I think perhaps more like being held under water. Heavy, breathless...but enduring. After seconds I became aware of other presences...and at first I thought they meant me ill, but soon I knew they felt the same pressure, the same need to escape, and then there was a smell. A sickness that I sometimes still catch the scent of even now as we walk. The stink of poison, of disease, of rot...but hungry rot. Like a mold grown over a dead cow in the rain. Creeping slowly over the carcass and into every orifice."
He stops and shifts his foot in the dirt, and reaches down to pick up a small stone, turning it over in his palm several times.
"That was my dream."
Thistle's look and words made Smith uneasy. A few days ago I wouldn't have let him near anything like that knife he's got. Now we all act like he weren't never touched in the head.
"Hmmph," he turned to the gear strapped to his mule, Kurva, "Folk didn't happen t'say where'n the river the witch were keepin' herself?"
He unsheathed his rifle, a Winchester '73, and hefted it over his shoulders.
"I'd say we split up and scout up and down the bank a ways, no further than shoutin' distance from each other," he glanced sidelong at the sheriff, "But I ain't the man in charge here."
I agree, Smith.
Cole cranks back the bolt on his new Heavy Crossbow so that the weapon is ready to fire as he scans the shoreline.
Doc listens intently to Thistle's recounting of his dream. Then lost deep in thought, he scratches at the gray stubble on his chin.
"Well, that's hardly a reassuring story, Mr. Thistle. Mr. Richardson I will leave it up to your discretion, but perhaps he should be supervised." He studies Thistle's face once more. "At least until we can be more certain of his mental stability."
Turning to Cole and Smith he nods. "Yes, I agree. We could cover more ground if we split up."
Thistle has a blank expression after the telling, taking in words of the others.
"I agree, more ground could be covered...but is it really wise? Strength in numbers doesn't really count if the numbers don't add up."
"I am not one for dividing a group. As Thistle said, strength in numbers. We stick together, witch or no witch. And no Smith, I was not given me the exact coordinates of the witch's domicile." Henry and Smith never quite saw eye to eye on any matter of business. The old man was getting worse over the years -- more set in his ways. Henry could be stubborn, too.
Henry rubbed his stubbled chin. "You aren't able to look into the future are you, Thistle? A bleak future by the sounds of it. Still, I do not like the sound of it. An ill omen." Henry was a superstitious man.
Taking the musket, he hands it over to Thistle carefully and deliberately, "Do not make me regret entrusting you with this weapon. Practice so you don't shoot an ally or yourself. Any strange antics from you and I will take the musket back. Are we understood, Thistle?"
Looking across at Smith, Henry instructs "Smith, you keep an eye on Thistle. We do not want him shooting something he is not meant to." Or someone, Henry silently muses.
Knowledge (Local):
"...And no Smith, I was not given me the exact coordinates of the witch's domicile."
Smith gritted his teeth at the sheriff's words but said nothing. Back in the day Smith and some others kept the peace in these parts with diplomacy or, more often, quick fists. But most of those others were dead now and when Richardson showed up, fresh off the boat and wanting to be a lawman, they'd just dug a bullet out of Smith's shoulder from a outlaw who had the bad manners to bring a gun to what was clearly a fistfight. Frank had been more than happy to let the Englishman play sheriff. He figured he'd have rested up by the time someone got round to killing Richardson. Much to his surprise (and that of many others in Devil's Fork), the youth had a habit of not dying and the town, whether it liked it or not, had a 'real' lawman.
"Kis Kurva, ne félj!", he whispered to his mule, "A sheriff megvédi téged."
He chambered a round into his rifle, "Okay, I think I'm ready to take on some poor old widow." He glanced at the musket in Thistle's hands, "An' Thistle's got it covered if'n we're attacked by a varmit. You know how to shoot that, son?"
As long as he doesn't shoot us or his foot, we'll be alright.
Cole smiles a crooked grin at Smith.
I always liked that old fella - tougher than nails.
Knowledge Local:
As the party follows the Northern bank of the Toxaway both East and West, little is uncovered. After some deliberation, there is general agreement to head due North and explore the terrain. A light drizzle makes the afternoon too cold for comfort and a thick, deep fog begins to surround the area.
Smith was wet and the cold was making his bones ache. He'd long since re-sheathed the rifle because he'd tired of carrying it. Besides, his hands were full just keeping old Kurva moving. The mule didn't like the weather any more than its master and would balk frequently. Smith got her moving again with slaps and a great deal of creative invective.
"Damn it, I hope that witch is the hospitable type," he glanced around at the thickening fog, "'cause it's damn sure we ain't gonna have a fire and a hot meal in these woods."
He rummaged through his pack and produced a small flask. He took a swig from it and offered it around.
"Here! Don' know what it is but it'll put fire in your belly. Anyone know where in creation we're at?"
Survival
Henry pulled his collar up against the cold and drizzle.
Stop your grumbling, old man, Henry silently admonished Smith. Henry kept his eyes on their surroundings, hoping to move them forward and not lose their way in the fog-filled woodlands. Henry shakes his head at the proffered flask.
Doc tried to focus on the trail ahead, but his mind kept wandering back to the problem of the disease.
I know the answer is right there in front of me. If I could just see it. Perhaps this 'witch' is an herbalist of some kind. He smiled. Well, now you definitely need some sleep, old boy. Hanging your hopes on chidren's stories.
Cole grabs the proffered flask from Smith. he takes a long pull, and hands it back.
Thank ya' Smith. Much appreciated.
He continues to trudge through the incessant rain.
Perception:
With the fog being so heavy, Henry relies on his other senses, listening carefully with his ears for any relevant sounds, movement etc.
The five men wander through the fog, unable to shake the bitter chill or make sense of where they are or where they are going. Richardson feels certain they are going in circles, but can't seem to navigate them any better. as the afternoon fades, the mist hangs low to the ground and the sounds of insects fills the air. The light drizzle continues as the sun sets and the party finds themselves lost in the woods somewhere North of the Toxaway. Though the fog is low enough to no longer obscure vision, the sun is setting and time is running out. Whatever they choose to do, they have little time to do it before night closes in.
Frank was feeling as wet and miserable as a body could and still not be drowned. He cursed the 'witch' for setting up household so far away from a hot meal and a dry bed, and cursed the sheriff for leading them around, apparently in circles, for the better part of the day.
The latter complaint never reached his lips. Though he never missed an opportunity to argue with Richardson, now wasn't the time. Smith held his tongue on the score.
"I can't see settin' up camp in this damp. If'n even we tried, I ain't got the proper gear for it. An' I just got rice an' beans an' salt pork for eating. And those need a fire to boil."
He racked his brain to remember if there was any shelter that might be in these parts. A cave, homestead, anything that might get them out of this rain.
The cursed fog had befuddled him and the other men. Even though he led the party, the others offered their various opinions and alike and it did not make much of a difference -- they still seemed to be moving in circles. Least Henry figured they were somewhere North of the Toxaway River.
Henry turned his cold face and caught glimpse of a certain look in Smith's eyes. Sure the old man would find a way to put the entire blame on me. If he knew better, then why didn't he get us out from under the fog? Henry could not understand Smith's grievances with him and this never ending battle of wills between them. Henry was tired and cold and frankly would sooner put a bullet through Smith's head then put up with any further compliant or blame from the man; silent or otherwise.
"If we cannot find shelter, then we find ground less damp and make do with tree and branch covering. I am certain between us we can manage. Give me a minute." Henry's voice sounded weary and there was a certain tone just beneath the weariness - like he was itching for a fight, especially if Smith pushed him too far. The animosity had been growing the past three years and one day it would end badly for one or both of them.
Still, Henry rifled through his memory of the area and any recollection of caves or abandoned dwellings, with some protection from the cold and rain. Perhaps then the old man would be appeased -- minimally.
Smith points out what he thinks is an obvious small clearing on high sandy ground that appears mostly dry. It would seem to be a fine place for a tent or other temporary shelter.
"Don't wander too far from camp. The fog does not seem as heavy, here, but it can still disorientate, especially in the dark. I am going to collect some wood."
Henry searches the sandy ground and surroundings for drier pieces of wood to build a fire with and any stronger/longer branches to build a lean-to with.
Frank lifted the pack saddle off of his mule and signaled to Thistle, "Come on. I'm gonna take Kurva here to some tall grass to feed her. We can gather some to use for bedding, unless you like sleeping on the cold ground." He gestured toward Thistle's large knife, "We can use that pigsticker o'yours to cut it down."
He paused for a moment to consider the bowie knife and its owner then bent over and drew his rifle from the pack.
"Er, don' wanna meet up with that bear's brother without some defence," he said awkwardly. "Gi-yup!" he tugged on the mule's bridle and started to lead her away.
Doc stared at the cold ground. Too tired to argue he helped set camp. Haven't slept out in the cold since the war. Body's going to have something to say about that in the morning.
"We should set watch while we sleep," he said to no one in particular. "I fear I'll be of little use once I stop moving until I get some proper sleep."
Thistle smirked a bit at Smith's comments, tightening his grip on the knife unconsciously. He slung the shiny "new" rifle over his back and followed a few steps behind the mule, whistling softly as he walked. Tune was a familiar one, but the pace was somber. Thistle look at the sky mostly, only looking down or ahead of him occasionally so as not to trip.
I'll volunteer for first watch, and I am thinkin' that a good game o'cards might be just what we need. A little nip t'warm ya will help too.
After camp is established, Cole will settle under the canopy with his Crossbow armed. He takes out a flask to pass around as he pulls out some weathered cards.
Henry finds dry wood for the fire and longer branches to make some shelter.
He busies himself with starting a fire and silently aiding Smith in building a lean-to big enough to provide some shelter for all of them.
When Cole volunteers to take first watch, Henry looks up at him from his crouched position putting the final touches to the lean-to, "I'll take the early morning watch, if you gentleman would like to rest." Henry stands, lifting his rifle, and makes his way under the canopy. "I'll play cards with you, Cole. Just don't cheat me out of all my money this time." Henry grins at Cole.
Cole shuffles the cards expertly, then deals to Henry and himself.
No gamblin' tonight. Let's just pass the time, friend. That way, I won't be cheatin'.
"Sounds good to me. Deal them out. Perhaps tonight, in all this precipitation and cold, I can win a hand."
Henry's eyes hold a certain level of mirth but they are also watchful, guarded. Henry also keeps an ear on the growing sounds in the darkening woods around them.
Thistle looks for a decent sized stone to sit on and rolls it over to the others. Failing that he simply sits on the ground and watches the others play cards. He often looks up at the sky, or makes a short whistle.
If asked to watch, he simply nods and then wakes the next person at the appropriate time.
Left to his own devices, he picks up small sticks and arranges them side by side, snapping off small pieces until they are all the same size.
As the sun fades and the fire struggles to burn in the humid air, darkness closes in around the campers. The stars and moon seem blotted out, invisible in the night sky. The trees sway and limbs clatter together as though the trees themselves were shivering. Not long into the first watch, shortly after Richardson gives up trying to beat Cole and goes to bed, other sounds seem to ride the creeping winds through the woods and into the camp.
Perception:
Cole nudges Richardson with his foot, and as he comes to, gets close to his face with a finger placed to his own lips, then points to the treeline. He then cups his ear and leans in that direction, as his quietly stands and walks towards the treeline and the whispers with crossbow drawn.
Stealth:
Perception:
Smith tried to keep up with the card game and the drinking but by the third hand his eyes were swimming and his head aching.
"Guess I'm just not up to this tonight. Wake me when you want me to take watch." He bundled himself up in his bedroll while cradling his rifle and soon was snoring softly.
As soon as Henry felt the nudge, he sat upright and looked around him.
He watched as Cole gestured to keep silent and pointed toward the trees. Cole was listening for something, so Henry got out of his bedroll, stood, gathered his rifle and followed behind Cole, carefully treading forward and gauging the dark woods for any threats.
Henry was perplexed at the two people's movement in the trees. It was unusual, to say the least.
Henry moved forward and tapped Cole on the shoulder to gain his attention. He pointed to the treeline then lifted two fingers close up to his friend's face, hoping there was enough moonlight for Cole to see. Henry gestured for them to advance, cautiously and quietly.
Cole nods and moves forward with Henry.
As quickly as he spotted them, Richardson lost the figures to the darkness. The whispers escalated, as though the trees themselves had become excitable about something. Suddenly, two figures burst from the treeline, with another more natural-looking figure close behind.