Still warm. Jolen withdraws his palm from the ashes and coals left in a shallow fire pit, sitting on his haunches as he studies the trampled grass and upturned soil; the dying embers indicative of a recent camp. Flattened greenery mark the places where the camp's members lay out under the night sky, three distinctive spots with scraps of food, oil stains and the occasional black feather collect in small piles at the ends closest to the hastily constructed fire pit. Curled wood shavings mark one of the three sleeping areas as different. And as expected, another stretch of crushed grass encircles the partially shaded copse; a track where a lookout strolled back and forth for hours on end as their compatriots rested through the night.
The scene speaks clearly to the practiced eye drinking in the details; a patrol of no more than four men, kestrels by the discarded plumes found about the camp. Barely disciplined, they have left many clues as to their actions over the night, making no attempt to hide their passing. He considers them armed with passable weapons for no one would waste weapon oil on poorly constructed arms, no matter how cheap the gritty oil is that has pooled in some places. Weapons of metal. Perhaps swords and maces. An axe. These things do not capture his attention long, not the same with the shavings of wood. At least one of the camp's former inhabitants can handle a blade well enough not to lose a digit or marr themselves horrifically.
Certainty rears its face in the bearing of the patrol and their camp's remains: they are confident in their mastery of the area. They patrol as ordered, part of the day's work for anything more complex than a band of brigands, but do not feel as if such precautions are necessary. This theory becomes ironclad as Jolen traces the direction the patrol took late in the morning, to the southeast. In the her direction. This realization brings fire, then ice to his veins, his knuckles glowing palely as he grips the shaft of his javelin tight.
Shouldering his shield, he takes the javelin in both hands, broad, leaf-shaped blade pointed low as he crouches and glides through the undergrowth, into the forest after the confident patrol. He moves wordlessly, pulling his breaths through his mouth and out again to lessen the noises he is making as he pursues his quarry. Only the tattered hem of his cloak makes a sound, betraying him nearly inaudibly as he moves, snapping as he strides further into the wood. Masked by the noise of forest life, Jolen presses onwards.
The hours pass, two, three and finally four before he smells and hears the signs of another camp ahead. Perhaps a couple hundred feet, the patrol has stopped for a late afternoon rest and meal. Coneys roast over a fire, fat spitting and hissing and throwing the savory scent of meat, catching the forest breeze and carrying it away. Their laughter even at this distance leaves no doubt as to the raucous nature of these men, livened in all probability with wine or other alcohol.
The cloak's hood is pulled up as he crouches closer to the ground, knees bent as the javelin is held before himself, shifting and sliding closer to the camp. Leaves whisper below his feet, crunching quietly as he carefully makes his way, his gaze scans his surroundings, hunting the lookout he knows is present. Pausing, Jolen closes his eyes and casts about himself psionically, the varied pulses of life blooming in his mind as he seeks his prey; four barely sentient minds coalesce out of the teeming multitude of the forest's natural denizens. Three are clustered in the direction he believes to be the location of the camp, while the fourth moves away from the others, eventually pacing around the forest. Coming towards me, he realizes with a slow smile. He readies himself, ducking near the semi-exposed roots of a centuries old tree.
A full fifteen minutes passes before the sentry comes into view. Raising a leather flagon to its mouth, the guard does not see Jolen watching him drink and almost stumble through the forest. Dressed in black, stained clothing, a simple leather breastplate is the only discernable armor the kestrel wears, his wings emerging through the back of his garments. At his side, a scabbard and a short sword hang carelessly, a hatchet hooked over the front of his weapon's belt, also appearing worn and neglected.
Jolen grows cold as understands what has truly happened to the mother of his children and one-time consort: Karsh.
The realization snaps him into action, the psionic energies pent up focussing and then releasing in a murderous and brutal thrust into the mind of the unsuspecting sentry; blood pours from the sides of his head, spraying violently from his mouth and nose as he dies in an instant, back contorting and breaking with a sharp crack of bone and ligament. Turning his attention back in the direction of the camp, its continued noise and laughter do not betray alarm or realization of the sentry's demise. The hatchet is ripped from the dead kestrel's weapon's belt and his held in his fist as he rushes quickly towards the encampment, his passing barely stirring the bushes and vegetation of the forest floor.
Again unnoticed, he finds the men at camp, cooking and chattering to one another in thick accents, "Fuckin' show dat were, eh? Boss knows how ta throw ah party for 'is boys." A rude gesture is shared and the laughter erupts again. "Wonder if lieutenant got 'im a whole piece offa dat bitch dancer. Fuckin' psycho bitch were a piece o' ass, e'vn fer a older whore." Snickers are shared, Jolen's grip on the hatchet grows tenser as he listens, the understanding deepening.
"Heardtell tha' whore be boss' own dau'hta."
