Were he a lesser man ([i]IE: a Southerner[/i]) Sikarthis might have complained or grumbled about the assignment he and the rest of his companions had been given. Standing atop the roof of that rather cramped gatehouse with the sweat building on the back of his neck, it had been more than a little irritating to find out that he had donned his battle dress for something as mundane and unimpressive as visiting a peaceful village. There was an itch growing in his sword arm of late that no amount of sparring and late night exercise could cure and he recognized it as an ache for battle. In the end though there was nothing he could do but grunt and make his way down to the stables where the Southerners kept their 'horses', animals Sikarthis did not care for in the slightest. Back in Ustynia yaks and Snowcats bred for mountain passing were the primary beasts of burden, neither of which allowed themselves to be so easily cowed as these long faced Southern beasts. There was something unnatural to Sikarthis about a creature that rarely offered even the slightest resistance. Also they stank.

And yet here he was, less than three minutes after being dismissed from the gatehouse, saddling one of the foul smelling creatures with all the grace of someone who's main experience with riding involved sitting astride armored cats and wooly yaks. It took longer than it probably should have but eventually Sikarthis managed to saddle the beast and hoist himself up into the hard leather seat. He was sweating more than before by then, much to his irritation. As he steered the horse towards the gate to join his companions he found himself mulling over the words Joachim had directed to him earlier. A few months may not have seemed like much to the younger sellsword but for Sikarthis, knowing that the only certain relief from the constant heat he felt beating down on him would not come for longer still did nothing to improve his mood. 

Most of the ride to the village was spent in silence on Sikarthis' part, the empty air quickly filled by Joachim rambling off some small story or other about the history of this area of land that the Southerner Queen had chosen as her own. Tuning out the words of the younger man, Sikarthis rode on in a daze, his mind growing foggy as he felt the heat pounding down on him like a relentless hammer. So out of focus was he that he missed the sudden stop in conversation, only awoken from his stupor by the commotion caused when Wren suddenly took off down the road toward the village. His mind snapping back into focus, Sikarthis took one look at the rising smoke in the direction of the village and dug his heels into the flanks of his mount, racing off after Wren and Rand who had reacted quicker than he. Passing the latter along the edges of the town, Sikarthis continued to urge his horse towards the village, drawing a javelin from the sheath that hung from his saddle. Despite what Gnarl had said earlier, Sikarthis had come well prepared for a fight, longsword and shield hanging from one side of his saddle while two sheaths full of javelins hung from the other. 

With his blood rising and the familiar sounds of shouting and screams growing louder the quicker he neared the town, Sikarthis could feel the itch in his arm beginning to fade. It was time to make some Southerners bleed.