Minutes that turned to hours passed as the escort of knights rode silently north on Ragnar's road. Sunbeams took the worst of the morning frost from Alwyn's bones and stripped him of the fatigue common to those set to a task so soon out of bed. He raised his eyes to the hunched figure that was leading the procession; Sir Nemian had taken the lead without a word as soon as the spires of Rivengarde were out of sight, not that anyone was complaining. It had been one matter to lead a group of city knights through routine patrols - or even dozens through combative drills, which he had done time and again - but another entirely to be charged with other members of the Drake's Tongue. In truth, the details of how Alwyn would captain the group had weighed heavily on his mind since he'd become aware of it, and he welcomed the opportunity for Sir Nemian's guidance.
Gazing at their surroundings held no form of distraction for Alwyn. Most of Drúg Feirn was vast, sleepy farmland, of which he had seen on dozens of weekend journeys beyond the walls. There wasn't so much as a tree branch out of place for which could be commented on for idle conversation. He sighed as the droning of twenty-four hooves routinely clacked against the cobblestones returned him to his thoughts. They had already passed through a couple of villages on their journey, though they had moved on as quickly as they had arrived, with only a farmer or their dog pausing a moment to watch as they passed.
Hollowhearth
The name rang in Alwyn's mind alongside a blurry memory of the place. He had only seen the crumbling ruin a handful of times, and always at a distance. Though its original name had been long forgotten, Hollowhearth Hall was unique amongst the hundreds of falling structures that dotted the countryside for two reasons. First was that the ancient inn was a good landmark for those travelling throughout the duchies, being positioned at a major crossroads. Second was that it was shrouded in rumors that caused the more superstitious country folk to shy away from it.
It will be a better spot to camp than out in the open Alwyn thought to himself, but too far away a journey to make in a day.
"We'll be coming to the largest village along Ragnar's road before nightfall. Purchase provisions for coming nocts and any supplies you've yet to acquire. Save the dried goods for the North."
"Might be we get ourselves an inn as well then, enjoy a final night with the comforts of a bed, eh? What say you?" Nathaniel asked from where he rode abreast.
Alwyn shook his head. "We've many moons ahead until we've reached our goal. We might not know the specifics of our journey, but that might not alleviate the suspicions of others. Best not to draw attention."
"Then might I suggest we stow our armor prior to this stop?" Asked Sir Harris, his freshly sharpened kopitars clinking against his greaves as if to support the very idea. "We shouldn't be needing it until we cross into the wildlands anyhow, and I doubt the common folk outside of Rivengarde see many knights wearing sunsteel plate."
Alwyn thought over the idea carefully, suppressing his immediate urge to deny the request based on his annoyance alone. Unfortunately, he had to concede that there was a point to be made.
"Very well. We'll dismount just before Dunwood is in sight."
There was a general census of satisfaction. Alwyn thought it to be the end of the conversation until Nathaniel piped up once more.
"If we're going through the trouble," he began persistently, "might as well we get a handful of rooms as well - we have plenty enough coin for it. I'm certain our greybeards would much appreciate the gesture."
Sir Heinrich cast a sideward glance at Nathaniel. "How very thoughtful of you," he began with a smirk, "perhaps you'd do me the honor of chewing my food for me this eve so that I might not choke."
Harris snorted, and the old knight met Alwyn's eyes as he chuckled himself. "We'll do as the Captain suggests."
Nathaniel gloomily huffed his assent. As Alwyn returned to face the road ahead, he found Sir Nemian glancing back and watching him intently. He could almost swear he saw the strange figure nodding his approval.
It was not much later that the party pulled their horses off to the side of the road behind a knoll on the outskirts of the nearby village. With haste they doffed the sunsteel plate and stored them in what space had been left for it on their horses. Each of the knights were relieved to be unburdened from the armor, with the exceptions of Sir Zachariah, who seemed apprehensive to be seen without it, and Sir Nemian, who, from what anyone could tell, was wearing no armor at all. Returning to the main road, Alwyn realised how fortunate their timing had been. Since they had departed Rivengarde, there had not been many travellers on the road, but as they grew closer to their first stop and the day grew longer, their path teemed with other passerby what seemed like every few minutes.
Just as with the number of other little hamlets that dotted Ragnar's road, Alwyn had visited Dunwood on a number of occasions when he had the opportunity to travel beyond the capital city, though he had not had the chance to do so in many moons. Being a predominantly farming village in the more northern sphere of the Capital's influence, Alwyn hadn't much reason to visit anyhow aside from boredom-fueled curiosity. They rode steadily along between the thatch-roofed houses that huddled together like pack animals. There was a small market in Dunwood that sold excess produce that came from the smaller sustainment farms in the area that Alwyn surmised would suit their goal. Although the farther the knights rode through the settlement, the more they had to watch that they did not run into any of the citizens that crowded the streets. It had become increasingly apparent that the population of Dunwood had grown.
Several of the stragglers turned their heads curiously towards the newcomers, watching them as idly as they passed by.
"Villages normally this dense in your part of the Kingdom, Al?" Nathaniel asked as his mount nudged a bedraggled man out of its path.
Alwyn shook his head in confusion. "No…not that I recall. It has been some time since my last visit but it seems as if there's near twice the population."
More and more faces, gaunt and expressionless, turned towards their direction as the horses rode nearer to market. An uneasy feeling took root in Alwyn's stomach.
"Likely because most of them aren't from here." Harris stated, raising an arm and pointing to a crest born on a man's partially torn sleeve. It depicted an eagle, wings spread in mid flight.
"Not a sigil for any noble house I've seen in Drúg Feirn." Said Alwyn.
"It is the crest of Count Rimeholt." Croaked Heinrich, a grim countenance shadowing his weathered face.
As the party reached the center of the village, the choked road widened briefly into a commons that Alwyn fortunately recognized. Though it seemed as if it was no sooner that the knights had paused that they were swallowed up in the crowd once again. Dismounting, Alwyn pushed his way through in irritation to the market stall he sought. What he found was a stand barren of people or produce, save two men engaged in heated argument. The first, a young man as disheveled as the rest of the common lot, was being scolded by a surly, armored man of middle age. It appeared as if the first man was about to rebuke the reprimand, but thought better of it after receiving a forceful shove to the chest. Alwyn approached courteously after the stray was turned on his heels.
A hand was raised at his approach before the man even met his eyes. "No board, no vittles. Yer welcun to look fer a roof fer the night, but come dawn I'd kick dust."
Alwyn regarded the man coolly. His armor was worn, with traces of rust on the metal of his brigandine. It wasn't unusual for sellswords to scrimp their plate and mail in secondhand parcels.
"My companions and I are passing through," Alwyn explained, "hoping to purchase fresh provisions from a local vendor before continuing on our way."
The man chuckled, still not bothering to give Alwyn a full glance.
"You an' the restta the northern sods comin' down the road a rags, friend. Unfortunately, s'not enough to go round, 'an I ain't in the habit of repeatin' myself." With a deafening hawk, the mercenary spat into the dirt between their feet.
Wordlessly, Alwyn pulled a silver medallion from the pocket he'd had sewn into his jerkin. Producing it before the man, it was finally enough to earn him a proper appraisal.
"We aren't Northmen," Alwyn explained, as the sallow man examined the emblem etched onto the medallion, "and if there does happen to be stores anywhere, I would be grateful to know where they could be bought."
Slowly, the man nodded, and Alwyn replaced the medal.
"Many 'pologies. Mosta the folks round 'ere are headin' to the city, not from there."
Alwyn nodded impatiently. "So regarding my request, I-"
"It don't change that there ain't nothin' to be had, Sir."
Alwyn was about to speak in protest, when the man drew in close enough that Alwyn could guess the last time he'd bathed.
"Ain't nothin' fer pickin' in Dunwood, nor Karheath, Norbury, Yarlowe, or Hangley Hill. 'Tween us knights, Baron's taken any extra yield for hisself - anythin' left is for the commonfolk to make it to Bloomrise."
"Did he now?" A sour taste filled Alwyn's mouth. He'd had no personal interaction with the local lord himself, but had seen his corpulent form trundling through the halls of Hoffholm Palace on many a respected occasion. Another thought caught his attention. "A knight yourself are you?"
The man smiled, revealing two rows of heavily yellowed teeth. "Aye thas it, knighted three roats past now, by Baron Foxhall hisself no less. Sir Barren the Black, at yer service."
Instead of rendering the salute traditional amongst all Regganorian knights, Sir Barren instead offered out his hand to shake beneath a heavily dented gauntlet. Alwyn took the hand after a moment's apprehension. He was unsure if it was the unsavory sheen of grease in the man's thinning hair, the state of his equipment, or apparent general lack of care for personal hygiene, but Alwyn had yet to be convinced of the man's station. Though he had, unfortunately, seen worse characters knighted by ignorant countryside lords.
"'The Black'?" He asked.
"Yessir."
"You seem as fair of skin as the rest of us."
"Thas not where it comes from." The knight smiled more wicked than before, though Alwyn greatly wished he wouldn't. "A moniker from a diff'rent time, an' a diff'rent profession."
"So then, Sir Barren," Alwyn began, eager to change the topic, "what would you recommend in ways of foodstuffs? We've enough to last off for the time being, if necessary, but it is far from preferred."
Sir Barren pursed his lips as he clicked his tongue in thought. "M-m-m-m-m. Many folk askin' the same question - if you've the scalics to pay, I'd offer em at one a the larger farmsteads.
Alwyn sighed, afraid that that was the answer he was going to receive. With haste he bid the shabby knight farewell and made way back to his party who, still mounted, watched expectantly at his approach. While the crowd had given little berth, it seemed as if the odd beggar was prevented from coming within reach of the animals from Sir Zachariah, who cast a venomous glare at any that thought to do so. Before the question could be asked, Alwyn shook his head in reply as he threw a leg over Esper. In a swift snap of the reigns, he wheeled the horse back towards Ragnar's road.
"We ride on to Hollowhearth," He ordered, "and camp for the night in the fields."