Viewing Single Post From: A Tavern Arrival

Viewing Single Post From: A Tavern Arrival
Rook Scarbin	Sep 6 2008, 12:12 AM
Level One Poster Posts: 21 Group: Unassigned Member #65 Joined: September 3, 2008	There was tremor in the wind, or perhaps it was the cold working it's way down his back. In his time away, Rook had forgotten just how the Northlands could bite a beast, right down to the marrow in the early evening. He paused, fingering the clasp of the faded navy cloak that perched across his shoulders; thin in the cape and frayed near the hemming, it was the last remnant of Ruddler he still owned. Despite the fact that it offered little protection from the elements, he still kept it tied most days. The weathered, mud-speckled fabric held woven within it's threadwork a lifetime of memories he couldn't bare to part with. Three days prior to arriving (and nearly a week's worth of footfalls out from the badger mountain Salamadastron), Rook had stopped and turned back to regard the compass in his paw with a disdainful sort of look. Like nearly all his possessions, it had weathered the salty spray of countless excursions, a glimmering silver trinket when he'd first purchased it. Now the corroded face and milky glass hid a crooked needle that spun with a drunken wobble. Due north.... He'd watched that needle with a grimace all the way up, fixed in place and seeming, at times, to sweep him along like a scolding finger might point a child in the direction of some dire punishment. At times he hated the compass for not turning against the magnet in it's belly to guide him home instead. Indifferent though it was, it still belonged to him, a faithful toy when he was assured of his own purpose. Now, each step father up the coast found the otter reminding himself that he was not a fool for giving up the stability and comfort of his adopted home, Redwall Abbey. The compass was mocking in it's strict adherence to natural law while he needed the daily reminder that this journey would set him right once and for all. Due north.... In three days he'd made the most of what remained of his resolve, resting very little and eating as he walked. On the third day, with his destination in sight he'd taken the compass from his pocket and threw it down onto the beach for the waves to gobble. It stuck itself in the sand and, in an instant, was gone, pulled back by frothy, cobalt colored fingers that rushed to join the heaving ocean. Now there was only himself to question. Beyond the impressive gates of Black Arch Fort, Rook was struck with an overwhelming sense of having been there before, the kind of potent deja vu reserved especially for places. Like Ruddler in the last days of the fort, there seemed to be only a skeleton force at work inside the walls of the place. He was a little worried by that. Seeing every beast in uniform, however, calmed him, even if a majority of them seemed a little verdant. Across the grounds a tavern building caught his eye, reminding Rook that he'd been drinking stale rainwater for most of the trek up. The image of a sweet and frosty ale popped into his head, clear as though it were sitting in his lap; the thought caused his lower lip to tremble a little and he nearly dropped his haversack as he shuffled for the door, trying not to appear too eager. Inside it was warm despite the beads of moisture his fur had collected from the damp air. His chill receded with the first step forward, his ears perking to the low din of the place, the indistinct chatter that warmed as well as the cheery fire that burned in the belly of a nearby stove. Slicking water from his arms, he brushed back the fur that hid a silvery collection of scars etched up his forearms, pulled back the hood of his cloak and walked to the wood burner, relaxing in the shimmering heat that radiated from it's cast iron body.
	Dictius Te Necare

A Tavern Arrival · Archives