Chapter One: Of Meetings
Silently, Rowen shena Tale'sedrin moved through the forest, hunting his prey. These last five years hadn't been easy; adapting to this new environment, hunting in a totally different style, accepting the fact that he just couldn't go back to Tale'sedrin the way he was now.
He had heard tell from some of the traders passing through his forest that the Magestorms had stopped, and most of the problems had been fixed, even without the use of the major magics. Most. Gliding through the brush like a wraith, the sunlight caught the sleek body under him. Muscles moved smoothly under hide that gleamed when caught in the sun, and four feet stepped deftly over dead branches and twigs. He wondered what his clan would make of him now. Scanning the brush for movement he drew and arrow out of his quiver, strung his bow, and tensed.
A rustle warned him seconds before the deer sprang out of the underbrush, and he immediately nocked the arrow and pulled it back, even as he leapt after his quarry. He chased the doe through the forest, getting ready-to-fire! The arrow flew straight and true, cutting cleanly through the animal's throat and thudding into a tree behind it. Good; that made it easier to retrieve later. The deer collapsed to the ground, and he rounded on it, leaning down to make sure it was dead. Yes, its eyes were glazing over and it wasn't breathing anymore. A perfect hit.
Later on that night, after eating his fill and storing the rest, he wandered around outside to study the stars. As usual, they afforded him no answer.
Bard Julian walked down the road, as usual, trusting his feet and mild sense of Empathy to tell him where to go. The sun beat down on his back, and his feet hurt. Time for a break.
He felt his way off the road, to the shelter of a large tree, and rested his pack beside him, sighing contentedly as the leaves shaded him from the hot sun.
He must have dozed off, because when he woke up, the air was distinctly cooler, and the mosquitoes were starting to bite. 'I need to find a house or an inn soon.'
As he rose, he heard hoofbeats on the road before him, and he listened carefully. Multiple hoofbeats, and none with that silver chime, so it couldn't be a Companion, nor a Herald. They stopped before him, and he heard the sounds of several riders dismounting.
"'Ere now, wot's this?" One of the riders queried. Julian heard the sounds of an edged weapon being drawn. Bandits? Bardic immunity should protect him, but just in case- he edged a little closer to the tree, and ever-so-casually placed his hand on his belt knife. Not a very good defense, but if they were bandits, maybe he could startle them long enough to escape.
"I am a Bard, good sir," he said, invoking every bit of the Gift he had to 'leave me alone, I'm not worth it, and it would be too much trouble for one stringy Bard.'
"Y'don't look much like one," the man said again.
"Why won' y' look at me?"
"I am blind, sir," Julian tried to answer as honestly as possible.
"Blind Bard's still good fer playin'. An' yer not bad lookin' either. Pretty, almos'."
Julian paled as he realized what the man meant.
"C'mere," the man that Julian now knew to be a bandit grunted.
"No!" the Bard grabbed his pack and scrambled off into the forest, away from the road.
The bandits started laughing, and one or two even started after him, until the leader called them back. "Oy, e's not worth it! Skinny run' like tha' wouldn' las' a week! Leave 'im!"
With that, the bandits left, but by that point Julian was too far away to know that.
He just kept running, opening his minor Empathy even more, to tell him when he was about to run into something.
When he judged that he was far enough into the woods, he stopped, breathing heavily. His pack practically fell off of his aching shoulders, and he slumped into the lee of a large rock. With shaking fingers, he opened his pack and withdrew his lute. It was okay. No cracks, dents, or dings, other than what had been there before. He sighed with relief, and slid it back into his pack.
He pulled his cloak around him and pulled his pack between his legs, loosening his belt knife in its sheath. It was getting colder, and he didn't have any shelter; this could be bad. He rummaged through his pack for food and came up with an apple and a loaf of slightly stale bread. He ate both, and drank some water from his canteen. His head started to hurt, and he realized that it had to be from opening it for too much, too long. He groaned, the headache worsened, and he wished that he had some willowbark tea.
Clutching his pack tighter, he willed himself into an uneasy sleep, chased by the damned reaction-headache.