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How far away had he journeyed from the capital?
Gilbert could not tell, even if one threatened him with a sword to his throat. He had been through so many cities, so many villages that he lost count. Not only of them, but the number of merchantmen he haggled with so he could rest his legs between two stops. The capital of his country seemed so far away now and if the length of his journey could be any indication, he may have made it to some foreign country. He honestly did not know; several countries in the area spoke the same language with a variation of the dialect and he could not care less about truly listening to how other people spoke.
Because, even after all this time, his memories of Blodwen Yates haunted him.
His country's First Princess. And the very reason he left behind his comfortable life in the capital.
Shaking his head, the once-royal-guard-and-knight focused his attention back on his journey. He had to, unless he wanted to sink in the mud that substituted for road in these parts. Even if Gilbert were without his armour and weapons - which he was not; he would only pawn those off if he got life-or-death desperate - he felt as though he could easily sink in this almost-liquid terrain. There were only a few safe spots of stones or loose gravel that could carry him safely.
At least it did not start to rain yet, not to mention that the village grew ever closer. There, he would take yet another break in his journey to rest up, then continue seeking his goal until the rest of eternity. Or until he ran into something greater, stronger and more vicious than himself. Or perhaps until the goddess of the moon, Selene, visited him with her reaping scythe. Not that he would have minded the latter outcome. These days, the certainty she offered remained one of the few sanctuaries in his mind. He even had considered becoming one of her servants one he was young, but he chose to become a royal guard in the end.
Ah, those damned memories of his were surfacing again.
Trying to divert his attention, Gilbert focused on the village... and frowned. It did not seem out of the ordinary at first sight: houses of clay brick either with wooden or reed roofs, with the occasional bit of stone mixed in for the richer homes. Most houses had thick, sturdy walls with thin window slits, a sure sign of a frontier village. They were built to stand the test of time along with the test of generations and had a main road lined with gravel weave through them. The side-roads, like the one he had been trying to navigate, were practically sinking in mud, along with the fields at the outskirts. Rainy season had certainly not been kind this year, as Gilbert could attest with his rusting armor, but that was not why he had frowned.
He had frowned, because the village felt deserted. Outright abandoned. Perhaps a few days ago at mo-
A cry of pain got his attention.
"Out of all the pitbound, cursed fates of Ariadne, I got handed the worst one." His hand went to his sword. He wrapped his fingers around the grip. Thanking and cursing the goddess of luck in the same breath for choosing to wear his armor for the trip rather than to carry it, he advanced as silently as he could, senses honed for any signs of life. He got several. Mostly cries of pain, turning into hapless begging and pleading for mercy as he moved closer. In no time, the once-royal-guard figured out the situation: some sort of bandit or slaver attack. In which case, he remained a knight of his country, even if he had abandoned the royal family itself. And even out of practice, after having traveled for who knows how long, Gilbert considered himself more than a match for some idiots trying to get rich quick.
"Just once, Ariadne. Load the dice in my favour already," he kept on grumbling as he got close enough to see the attackers... the slavers... who were far too busy having their fun with some family trying to make a bargain for the life of their children, to pay attention to him, giving him plenty of time to observe if he wished.
He did not wish it.
Calling on the might of his training, the years he spent with armour and sword, he rushed forward at a speed many thought impossible, then slammed into the bandit closest to him. His buckler caught the woman right in the stomach, sending her flying through the air. Where she landed, he paid no attention to as he seized his moment of surprise and sunk the pommel of his sword into another piece of filth's skull before anyone could even react - but even when they did, the response was poorly organised, sluggish and most importantly, panicked. Chaos broke out within seconds as some of the villagers tried to wrangle free of slaver grasp and the leaders of various cliques within the group tried to mount some form of resistance.
Gilbert could not tell, even if one threatened him with a sword to his throat. He had been through so many cities, so many villages that he lost count. Not only of them, but the number of merchantmen he haggled with so he could rest his legs between two stops. The capital of his country seemed so far away now and if the length of his journey could be any indication, he may have made it to some foreign country. He honestly did not know; several countries in the area spoke the same language with a variation of the dialect and he could not care less about truly listening to how other people spoke.
Because, even after all this time, his memories of Blodwen Yates haunted him.
His country's First Princess. And the very reason he left behind his comfortable life in the capital.
Shaking his head, the once-royal-guard-and-knight focused his attention back on his journey. He had to, unless he wanted to sink in the mud that substituted for road in these parts. Even if Gilbert were without his armour and weapons - which he was not; he would only pawn those off if he got life-or-death desperate - he felt as though he could easily sink in this almost-liquid terrain. There were only a few safe spots of stones or loose gravel that could carry him safely.
At least it did not start to rain yet, not to mention that the village grew ever closer. There, he would take yet another break in his journey to rest up, then continue seeking his goal until the rest of eternity. Or until he ran into something greater, stronger and more vicious than himself. Or perhaps until the goddess of the moon, Selene, visited him with her reaping scythe. Not that he would have minded the latter outcome. These days, the certainty she offered remained one of the few sanctuaries in his mind. He even had considered becoming one of her servants one he was young, but he chose to become a royal guard in the end.
Ah, those damned memories of his were surfacing again.
Trying to divert his attention, Gilbert focused on the village... and frowned. It did not seem out of the ordinary at first sight: houses of clay brick either with wooden or reed roofs, with the occasional bit of stone mixed in for the richer homes. Most houses had thick, sturdy walls with thin window slits, a sure sign of a frontier village. They were built to stand the test of time along with the test of generations and had a main road lined with gravel weave through them. The side-roads, like the one he had been trying to navigate, were practically sinking in mud, along with the fields at the outskirts. Rainy season had certainly not been kind this year, as Gilbert could attest with his rusting armor, but that was not why he had frowned.
He had frowned, because the village felt deserted. Outright abandoned. Perhaps a few days ago at mo-
A cry of pain got his attention.
"Out of all the pitbound, cursed fates of Ariadne, I got handed the worst one." His hand went to his sword. He wrapped his fingers around the grip. Thanking and cursing the goddess of luck in the same breath for choosing to wear his armor for the trip rather than to carry it, he advanced as silently as he could, senses honed for any signs of life. He got several. Mostly cries of pain, turning into hapless begging and pleading for mercy as he moved closer. In no time, the once-royal-guard figured out the situation: some sort of bandit or slaver attack. In which case, he remained a knight of his country, even if he had abandoned the royal family itself. And even out of practice, after having traveled for who knows how long, Gilbert considered himself more than a match for some idiots trying to get rich quick.
"Just once, Ariadne. Load the dice in my favour already," he kept on grumbling as he got close enough to see the attackers... the slavers... who were far too busy having their fun with some family trying to make a bargain for the life of their children, to pay attention to him, giving him plenty of time to observe if he wished.
He did not wish it.
Calling on the might of his training, the years he spent with armour and sword, he rushed forward at a speed many thought impossible, then slammed into the bandit closest to him. His buckler caught the woman right in the stomach, sending her flying through the air. Where she landed, he paid no attention to as he seized his moment of surprise and sunk the pommel of his sword into another piece of filth's skull before anyone could even react - but even when they did, the response was poorly organised, sluggish and most importantly, panicked. Chaos broke out within seconds as some of the villagers tried to wrangle free of slaver grasp and the leaders of various cliques within the group tried to mount some form of resistance.