Once past the gates of the Free City, the going was remarkably easy. The line of riders picked their way across the fields and farms surrounding Aethwin, and off toward the edge of the Royal Forests, just visible in the distance. Alan gazed out over the rolling hills and quaint farmlands, marveling over the transformation that had taken place over his lifetime. In his youth, more than a mile or so beyond the city walls was a dangerous place to be, with regular raids from local tribes of humanoid monsters, and even the more unsavory bandit group.
He remembered those first few forays into the wilds, after coin and comfort. Where once he and the others had challenged a goblin camp, now there stood a farm and pasture. Where Grunder Mace's bandits had waylaid them on the way home, laden with treasure, now there was just a field of wheat, swaying in the breeze. The actions of the Reavers and those adventuring companies like them, even if motivated by want of riches at first, had done genuine good over the years. Their progress had swept the worst of the forces of chaos away from the walls of Aethwin, and the patrols of the Count's men had kept the area clear and peaceful ever since.
It was little wonder that the newer crop of Reavers had such trouble making their name, they grew up in the shadow of his own generation. He shook his head to clear such thoughts, and looked back to the others. Garthur seemed lost in his own thoughts as well, his stout form riding awkwardly in a saddle made for someone with longer legs. Windhawk rode well ahead of the group, her sleek, leather-clad form upright in the saddle, her keen eyes and ears seeking out any sign of trouble. Not that they could be easily surprised out in these fields.
Vick, his helmet doffed, the sun glinting off of his bald head, was chatting merrily with the inquisitive splash of colorful robes and shock of fiery red hair that was Faringalia. What was it with their group and red headed magic users, anyway? From what Alan could overhear, Vick was telling her of their early adventures, the very same that the old rogue himself had been thinking on. To hear Vick tell the tales though, it had all been fun and games, and he had been the one pulling most of the party's weight. Perhaps not entirely untrue in those early years, though Alan remembered having to pull Vick out of his own self-inflicted trouble even in town more than once.
And then there was Daphne. Wrapped in her voluminous cloak to protect her from the sun as it soared high in the sky, she seemed to half doze in her saddle. She shared neither the early memories of the group, nor the true camaraderie of being a real part of the group. The Reavers had already been famous when she had been defeated and surrendered, and despite having been true to her word about the terms of her surrender ever since, she was still what she was, a vampire. And even putting that aside, she had been an assassin that killed for profit. True, that wasn't far off of what the early Reavers did, but at least they had some sense that the creatures and bandits they went after for bounty deserved it. The black blades didn't care if their targets were a heinous warlord or an innocent child, so long as the price was right.
It was a wonder that she'd even come. She was worse than useless in the day, just a sleepy, weakened target that could vanish into ash if her coverings were disturbed. There was no profit in it for her either, if they all perished on this trip, she would be free again. Even if she genuinely wanted him, if they succeeded, they would recover his wife and she'd be that much further from even the most slender chance of being with him. For a creature of darkness and shadow, nothing about her actions made sense.
As he considered Daphne, she began to slump over in her saddle. He hurriedly urged his own mount closer to her, and slipped one arm about her shoulders to steady her. She stirred from her sleep just enough to turn her head to him. Her expression was hidden under that mask and those goggles, and she didn't say a word. After a moment, however, she leaned in against his side, close as she could with the separation of their mounts. He held her like that awkwardly for a moment, before Windhawk's voice called out from before them, just at the eaves of that forest.
"Stay close so you don't get lost. From here on it should be a straight shot toward the Pinroot Wood area. Once we get to where I spotted them, then we'll have to dismount and slow down further so I can try to track them," As she spoke, however, she shot a glare at the dozing Daphne, who started upright, drawing away from Alan's side.
The old thief shook his head with a smirk as he looked between the two elven women. At least their quarrels were justified by their outlooks and their very beings, and not just some petty jealousy or power struggle. He could respect that, at least comparatively. His own gaze drifted back toward the gnome woman, and a frown crossed his features. Maybe he could do with giving her less of a hard time.
As they wound their way into the trees, the canopy overhead screened out much of the sunlight. Daphne seemed to perk up just a little, but the golden rays that still pierced the green tinted shadows about them were enough to keep her on her guard. Progress was slower than their trek across the fields, but still a bit faster than they would have traveled on foot, thanks to Windhawk's expert trailblazing.
The border of the Royal Forest that lay near to Aethwin lacked its own name, and for the most part was a lighter, more well scouted area than it had been in years past. Pinroot Wood, by contrast, was separated from the main forest only by a stony ridge some distance in, and designated as such simply because it surrounded the ruins of what was once Pinroot Keep.
As the day wore on and the undergrowth thickened, travel slowed. Alan had been hoping to keep the horses, in case the trail lead into the plains beyond the first, but it was becoming increasingly unlikely that they would be able to maintain the same pace through the woods for long. At least the going was peaceful. A few birds flitted through the branches above, and every so often in the distance, he thought he sported movement as some deer or rabbit darted off into the brush.
At last, as the hours dragged on, and the shadows lengthened, Vick called for a halt.
"We'll break here for a meal and a rest."
"I'll continue scouting ahead, we shouldn't be far away." Windhawk's soft voice drifted back to the others, as her lean form slipped from her saddle. Without hesitation, her lithe, leather clad figure slipped into the trees and disappeared amongst them as easily as a fish sliding through a babbling stream.
It was with some degree of jealousy, not desire, that Alan watched the elven woman blend into the forest. The inexorable march of years certainly handled her ageless people with the lightest of touches, while bestowing upon him slowed reflexes, stiffer joints, and what his wife liked to call a 'distinguished look'.
While he wished he had the energy to continue onward without rest, a quick glance about told him that the others were grateful to take a few moments to stretch their legs and take a quick break. For his part, Alan settled on an old, fallen log. It wasn't long before Faringalia approached, and hoisted herself up on the log beside him. A swift sweep of one hand smoothed her multicolored robes down over her lap.
"Sir Tinsley, er, Alan?" She was unusually reticent, as if carefully monitoring her own words to avoid the running chatter he found so irritating. "Count Varonne said your group had a history with these woods, or at least Pinroot Wood, but he wouldn't say what it was." She worried at her plush lower lip, frightened she had overstepped her bounds with that question.
"Ah, no, no he wouldn't," Alan's soft chuckle visibly set her at ease, "It was long ago, thirty years ago. But first, you know the history of the area do you not? Of Pinroot Keep?"
"Only that it used to be the center of civilization out here, centuries ago."