Tracks

When he had reluctantly drug himself out of his furs it was still dark. Squatting by the brazier he absorbed what warmth it gave and watched the water boil for his blackwine. He ate a Spartan meal of blackwine, flat bread with butter on it and a couple of sticks of jerky. Over time, he had learned what it took to keep his body fit, and rarely indulged in excess of what was needed. His main vice was the blackwine.


The meal eaten he stands to dress for the bitter cold outside. Before he pulls the long sleeved, verr wool tunic over his head, he stops for a minute to run his fingers over the scars on his chest and shoulders his memory flashing back to where, when and how he had gotten them. For just the briefest moment a small shiver of fear raises in him only to be beaten back by the stronger part of him that is in control most of the time.


Fully dressed he steps out onto the platform and scans the area around the Ubar's wagons. Everything was quiet and dark. He knew they had returned late to their wagon because he heard the laughter and whispers as they passed by his wagon. Scanning the area again, he puts on his helm and drops the chains into place. Not because he was going into battle, but because the mail offered a some protection from the ice crystals that hung in the air. The black was still tethered to the wagon wheel and he goes to take the thick furs off its' back, adds two extra blankets then saddles the animal. Squatting in the snow, he checks all four clawed feet, working some ice out between talons with his fingers. Standing he pats the kaiila on the shoulder and hand feeds him some jerky. He has hopes that they might spot some small game today so the kaiila can have a proper meal. Pulling up into the saddle they walk slowly through the rows of wagons until they break free of them and he is able to urge the beast towards the outer perimeter of the bosk herd.


He sees a figure breaking from the edge of the herd of bosk. A mounted man, riding slowly, leaning in his saddle to look at the ground. Approaching him he rides alongside of him and looks down. Blood and the tracks of where a body has been drug through the ice and snow. He tells the outrider to go back to his patrol and to not say anything about what he has seen, or he would suffer the ire of the Ubar. Backtracking, he rode his kaiila through the tracks to obscure them. There was no need in starting a panic until he knew more.


Turning around he moves back along the tracks, walking his kaiila through them to try and destroy the evidence. He followed them over a small rise, and was not surprised in what he found. Sliding down off of Lestat, he was a more cautious of the signs and the tracks. There were few remains to investigate. It looked to probably have been a yearling calf. All that was left was a portion of the head, bits of fur and gnawed bones.


Squatting he took his helm and gloves off and was immediately regretting it. The frigid air attacked him with no mercy. Looking at the tracks, his hand dropped, fingers running around the ridges of the. There was no doubt, they were larl tracks. Had it been the tracks of one larl, it might not have chilled him so much, but there was evidence of more than one. He could make out three distinct sets of tracks, and there were possibly more. The snow had managed to obscure some of them. He was not a man that frightened easily, but larls that were hunting in a pack were more dangerous than the single animal hunting alone. A single larl could take down a man or a calf. A pack could bring down a full grown bosk or kaiila. Or more.


Almost by instinct his hand lifted to rub through the layers of cloth to the scars on his chest. His head lifted and he searched the lands looking for any other signs. Standing, he scoured the white landscape, but saw nothing. He did get an eerie feeling that he was being watched, then his ears picked it up in the distance. There was no doubting that it was the grown of a larl, once you have heard that sound, as he had, you never forget it. But it was the answering growl that sent the real chill through him. Quickly, he bent to pick up what was left of the head and carried it back to lash to his saddle to take to his brother.


When he turned Lestat back towards camp another sound came to him, an even deeper growl and grumble. The terrifying thing about it, was that it was near and the icy ground began to shake.
When he had reluctantly drug himself out of his furs it was still dark. Squatting by the brazier he absorbed what warmth it gave and watched the water boil for his blackwine. He ate a Spartan meal of blackwine, flat bread with butter on it and a couple of sticks of jerky. Over time, he had learned what it took to keep his body fit, and rarely indulged in excess of what was needed. His main vice was the blackwine.


The meal eaten he stands to dress for the bitter cold outside. Before he pulls the long sleeved, verr wool tunic over his head, he stops for a minute to run his fingers over the scars on his chest and shoulders his memory flashing back to where, when and how he had gotten them. For just the briefest moment a small shiver of fear raises in him only to be beaten back by the stronger part of him that is in control most of the time.


Fully dressed he steps out onto the platform and scans the area around the Ubar's wagons. Everything was quiet and dark. He knew they had returned late to their wagon because he heard the laughter and whispers as they passed by his wagon. Scanning the area again, he puts on his helm and drops the chains into place. Not because he was going into battle, but because the mail offered a some protection from the ice crystals that hung in the air. The black was still tethered to the wagon wheel and he goes to take the thick furs off its' back, adds two extra blankets then saddles the animal. Squatting in the snow, he checks all four clawed feet, working some ice out between talons with his fingers. Standing he pats the kaiila on the shoulder and hand feeds him some jerky. He has hopes that they might spot some small game today so the kaiila can have a proper meal. Pulling up into the saddle they walk slowly through the rows of wagons until they break free of them and he is able to urge the beast towards the outer perimeter of the bosk herd.


He sees a figure breaking from the edge of the herd of bosk. A mounted man, riding slowly, leaning in his saddle to look at the ground. Approaching him he rides alongside of him and looks down. Blood and the tracks of where a body has been drug through the ice and snow. He tells the outrider to go back to his patrol and to not say anything about what he has seen, or he would suffer the ire of the Ubar. Backtracking, he rode his kaiila through the tracks to obscure them. There was no need in starting a panic until he knew more.


Turning around he moves back along the tracks, walking his kaiila through them to try and destroy the evidence. He followed them over a small rise, and was not surprised in what he found. Sliding down off of Lestat, he was a more cautious of the signs and the tracks. There were few remains to investigate. It looked to probably have been a yearling calf. All that was left was a portion of the head, bits of fur and gnawed bones.


Squatting he took his helm and gloves off and was immediately regretting it. The frigid air attacked him with no mercy. Looking at the tracks, his hand dropped, fingers running around the ridges of the. There was no doubt, they were larl tracks. Had it been the tracks of one larl, it might not have chilled him so much, but there was evidence of more than one. He could make out three distinct sets of tracks, and there were possibly more. The snow had managed to obscure some of them. He was not a man that frightened easily, but larls that were hunting in a pack were more dangerous than the single animal hunting alone. A single larl could take down a man or a calf. A pack could bring down a full grown bosk or kaiila. Or more.


Almost by instinct his hand lifted to rub through the layers of cloth to the scars on his chest. His head lifted and he searched the lands looking for any other signs. Standing, he scoured the white landscape, but saw nothing. He did get an eerie feeling that he was being watched, then his ears picked it up in the distance. There was no doubting that it was the grown of a larl, once you have heard that sound, as he had, you never forget it. But it was the answering growl that sent the real chill through him. Quickly, he bent to pick up what was left of the head and carried it back to lash to his saddle to take to his brother.


When he turned Lestat back towards camp another sound came to him, an even deeper growl and grumble. The terrifying thing about it, was that it was near and the icy ground began to shake.