Mikael groaned as he emerged from his hide tent, his joints still aching from the previous day's hike. He clambered out into the cool air and let the breeze wash over him, the sun's warming rays just beginning to cover the land. A faint sparkle of frost dusted the grass and dirt around his campsite, and he took in the beauty of it even as he started to shiver from the cold.
He was behind schedule. That weighed heavily on his mind as he surveyed the valley that lay before him, the blue sky brightening as morning was truly birthed. That there was good reason for his tardiness did not change the fact that he was still late, and if he didn't make it to Gertham before sundown he would miss not only the inauguration of the new merchant king, but the work -- and thus coin -- that would go with it.
He had maintained a harsh pace through the Glacier Mountains, traversing more distance in a few days than many would consider possible in a week. Shortcuts and an aptitude for the outdoors leant themselves well to time-saving, and it was with that thought in mind that Mikael had decided to spend the afternoon in a small outpost town's tavern two nights ago. He had thought only to linger there a few hours before continuing on his way, hopefully restarting his journey in time to gain more leagues before darkness fell - but that was before he had met the serving girl.
He did not regret staying the evening after that, and neither, he suspected, did she. An exceptionally pretty young woman, their night of passion was an incredible experience, but it had nevertheless set Mikael back. Attractive girls had often delayed him, and this had been no different.
He shook his head and ran a hand through his messy hair, sucking in a lungful of the icy air before turning back to his tent. There he immediately set to work packing the items away, and before long the entire campsite had been condensed into a pack no larger than his head. The charms on the tent that saw it shrink in size when stored away still held strong, and Mikael thanked the Gods again for his chance encounter with the witch who had scribed them for him.
He grinned as he set off, his boots crunching on the ice-brittle grass. That night had been another such example of his willingness to indulge the carnal desires of a gorgeous woman, and again it was one that, though he did not regret it, had certainly cost him. Mikael, employed as a messenger between two merchants, had been sent with utmost urgency, his pay minimal but with a substantial bonus were he to arrive within two days. That bonus would have been enough for him to retire for the rest of the season and enjoy himself, indulging in all the luxuries of summer without the need to work.
Yet the Gods were never so straightforward, and he had stumbled upon the witch's abode late on the first day. Needing somewhere to sleep he had knocked on the door, and, trying to ignore the sheer beauty of the woman who greeted him there, enquired as to a spare bed. She had ushered him inside with the promise of a mattress, yet later revealed to him that she had not been entirely honest; she had only one bed in her home, but he was quite welcome to share it with her. Three days on, late but well-satisfied, Mikael had left her house, the charmed tent in his possession. It had been a gift, one Mikael had been left with little choice but to accept; the ferocity of the witch's demands he do so matched only by the vigour with which she had spent the previous three nights riding him.
He had missed out on the bonus, of course, confronted at his destination by an irate merchant who -- though grateful to receive the package -- was less than impressed with the celerity of its delivery. To Mikael, however, the delay was worth it -- the tent had proven to be far more valuable to him than the few months he would have spent relaxing had he ignored the witch's house and earned himself the bonus.
That thought lingered in his mind as he trudged down the dirt path. The frequent unforeseen encounters he enjoyed with the girls he met on his journeys may have set him back more times than he could count, but in the long run things usually worked out for the better. He paused on the winding track, a cold shock of wind blasting him as his mind pondered the thought. He could not, in fact, recall a single occasion when his choosing to spend time with an eager young woman had left him in a worse position overall than if he had rejected such an opportunity.
He smiled, never having truly identified such a pattern before, and mused as to what fortune he might now gain. He had not, after all, seen any benefits from his night with the tavern girl -- apart from the obvious ones, of course - and though her rapturous moans had been enough to make the whole experience worthwhile, he could suddenly not shake the feeling that bigger things were to come.
With a wry smile he set off once more, his leather boots finding grip easily on the icy path. He was dressed almost entirely in leather armour; the only part of him exposed was his head. Suicide, he had always been told, but he had found himself a more able fighter with his vision unimpeded by a helmet, and he had not been killed yet.
Wrapping his long, black cloak about himself as another gust of wind whipped up the mountainside, he readjusted the pack on his shoulders and gritted his teeth. Despite the brightening sun and his steady descent, he could swear it was actually getting
colder
. A wave of wariness ran through him, and his nerves set on edge.
He mentally made note of the two longswords sheathed at his waist, able to be withdrawn in a moment to confront any possible foes. A shortbow was strapped to his back, too, and whilst he preferred melee combat by far, he was no novice in the art of shooting. If this cold did signify some present danger, he would not be caught unprotected.
Indeed, Mikael was an exceptional warrior. Of normal build, he was often underestimated, mistaken for a run-of-the-mill foot soldier and overlooked in favour of the larger, more ferocious-looking mercenaries. He stood a couple of inches over six feet tall, and his messy hair was unkempt but not unclean. Broad-shouldered, he looked strong for a normal man yet paled in comparison to the barbarians who made their way down from the frigid northern wastes in search of work. There had been more than one occasion Mikael had been forced to put one of those barbarians in their place, fed up of ignoring the abuse that inevitably came from a low level mercenary when they felt they held the upper hand.
Yet despite his relative lack of impressive size, he had never been short of work. Whilst he may not have always been picked first by the most eager merchants, he inevitably ended up in a job -- and on a dangerous journey it was Mikael's caravan that would reach its destination unscathed.
The main portion of his coin came from protecting caravans against bandits and other dangers of the wilds, and it was in the outdoors that Mikael particularly excelled. He had an affinity for it; born and raised by a merchant couple, he had spent his youth on the back of the travelling caravan, amongst the wares his parents sold. Mountains, forests, deserts and tundra had all passed by as the party traversed the land, moving from kingdom to kingdom and exposing Mikael to a different culture in each city they came to.
But it was the very nature of their business that had brought an end to Mikael's pleasant childhood and thrust upon him the realities of a cruel, vicious world. Late one night, when the caravan had set up camp, bandits had attacked, slaughtering the guards and dragging Mikael's parents to their leader. Mikael had hidden in one of the wagons at his mother's urgings, and could only watch as the raiders struck down his parents, his life torn apart in a fleeting moment as the mother and father he loved were killed before him.
The bandits were not sadistic. They did not torture his parents. They merely wanted to take the goods that his parents would not give up, and though Mikael could be at least partly calmed by the knowledge that his mother and father had not suffered, it did not quell the fire that burned in his spirit.
He had spent the next few years in relative quiet, however; having stumbled to the nearest town, he was taken in by the local tavern owner who employed him as a barkeep. He was well looked after, and treated as an employee might expect of generous patrons, but he yearned for something more. Desiring the wandering life of his parents, he had longed for the day he could raise the coin to become a warrior.
That day came when the tavern owner died. He was left some coin as a reward for his service, and with it he purchased his first sword. And with that he left, striking out on his own as all bonds were severed, seeking to become what he had long desired to be.
Not that his time in the tavern had been wasted; far from it. It was there he learned the value of trust, and how to judge a man's nature without so much as a word. It was in the tavern, too, that he was first welcomed into the arms of a woman, and his education in the carnal arts was frequent and well-received. His fellow tavern workers were all female, and each took a special interest in furthering Mikael's horizons, instructing him in the arts he found such pleasure in today.
But that time had passed. He was alone now, and though he knew he would be welcome in that tavern any time, it was a world away. He had no idea if it even existed anymore, or whether any of the girls still worked there. Despite only being a little over twenty-four summers old, years had passed since he left that place and struck out on his own. In that time he had matured, grown into the more than capable ranger he was today, and it that was lifestyle he knew now.
He snorted as he remembered his past, his memories flooding back as they often did. He had tried at first to block them out, before he came to realise they were a part of who he was. It was the memory of his parents' deaths that had driven him to this life, and it was their memory that kept him there -- he'd be damned if he'd let bandits kill anymore innocent merchants whilst they were under his protection.
A sudden eruption of wings caused Mikael to whirl, his hands blurring to the sheaths of his swords. Hundreds of birds had taken flight behind him, a tree emptying its branches of the darting black streaks. He let out an amused sigh as the tension dissipated, and though he remained watching a moment longer to ensure there truly was no danger, he relaxed.
He resumed his journey; he had a long day ahead.
*****************************
Mikael exhaled a sigh as he caught sight of the river. Heavy winter rains had swelled it, and with a sinking heart he realised he would have no chance of crossing in the few daylight hours he had left. Gertham was merely beyond the next set of hills, yet the closest crossing point that would remain usable in these floods was another half-day away.
He sat down on a nearby rock with a grimace, curses racing through his mind. He had really needed that coin; had really needed to reach the town before night fell and the guards were hired. The deepening gloom merely served to sour his mood even further, and it was a long time before he hauled himself upright from the boulder on which he was perched.
He looked around; dark was settling over the land now, and no habitation appeared nearby. It looked like he would be camping overnight once again, and so with one last glare at the river he set off towards the trees.
It did not take him long to locate a suitable clearing. It was not far from the path, yet he was hidden and largely sheltered. A small fire would not easily give away his position, and he could be fairly content that any bandits would not find him there. Setting down his pack, he collected some wood, and before long had constructed a small campfire in the centre of the site.
A sudden noise in the trees beyond his vision caused him to freeze, and his senses raced into alertness. Listening, he heard the noise again, and his heart began to thump in his chest as he realised it was the sound of numerous, shuffling footsteps.
