Blueberries. Blueberries, and … peaches? [i]No, that can't be right.[/i] Kaerun sipped at his flask again, keeping more of the whiskey on his tongue this time to try to parse through what it was he was tasting. Definitely blueberries amidst the incredibly sharp tang of homemade swill, but that second strain, that echo of fruit beneath it … he couldn't place it. Right on the tip of his tongue. So to speak. He let the slow, easy movement of the horse beneath him soothe his thoughts in an effort to lull himself into an unconscious revelation, though he held out no hope of it working. Instead he tapped one of the arms that encircled his waist and pressed the flask into the first hand that freed itself from its grip. “Try this.” The voice of his companion was soft and distant. “Mm? What is it?” Slow. Slurred. Had she been sleeping? “I think you'll like it. Take a swig.” The flask and the hand of its bearer disappeared. Moments later he felt a splash on the back of his neck and a sputtering dose of words that would've made a sailor blush. “Asshole! What is this? Pure alcohol?” [i]Not asleep anymore.[/i] Kaerun fought down a grin. “Blueberries and what else?” “Blue … there are [i]flavors[/i] in this?” He felt her move in the saddle behind him, and in his mind's eye he could see the raven-haired girl signing a ward against evil and chaos. A true believer? Or just someone with bad habits? “May the Lady defend me from the insanity of men.” A pause, then: “Where are we?” Kaerun reigned his horse in as they approached the main campsite. A few dozen Company soldiers had already begun clearing the ground and erecting tents. A couple of them had been set to work constructing rough fortifications – a bristling wall of wooden spikes that wouldn't do much to actually protect them beyond frightening would-be thieves – and Kaerun could practically feel the resentment and boredom radiating off of them. That's why it always paid to arrive late, especially if it was seniority that dictated camp hierarchy like it was amongst the Wolves. A lesson crucial to attaining a modicum of happiness in the life of a dog of war. Or … wait. Should he should be thinking himself less a 'dog' and more a 'wolf of war' now? Such things mattered to some. Ah, well. It would come in time, he supposed, if not necessarily the sort of time the Company had left in it. After all, he'd been one of the Captain's sword-arms for a barely decade and now they were riding into the jaws of annihilation. This might be a very short stint indeed. “We're a stone's throw from Orvston,” he answered, dismounting. Once he was clear of the saddle he turned back to his companion and offered a hand. She accepted and descended from her seat as gracefully as she could. Which, truth be told, wasn't all that graceful. It was difficult to maintain dignity when it came to traveling; in his long life it had proven to be one of the great equalizers. A cold breeze gripped the pair of them as she gained her balance on the pack earth beneath them. “Do you think it'll snow soon? I haven't seen any snow in ages.” “Ages?” Kaerun asked, bemused. She grinned. “Ages and ages.” Her smile was all teeth, and either through virtue of her youth or a vestige of the clean living she once adhered to, those teeth were still quite pretty. Odds were against her keeping them in the long run, though. Poor girl. In just a few decades she'd fall apart; he could already see the faintness of lines wearing into the edges of her eyes, and could spot where her skin would begin to sag. What was that pity Old Tongue quip? [I]“Such is the beauty of a human – a ray of candlelight upon rough waters.”[/i] A quip that actually didn't sound nearly as cruel in the language of those it insulted as it did in the language of those who were assholes enough to immortalize it. What did that say of the elves? Nothing he didn't already know. [i]Monsters, the lot of us, and there's the truest truth I know.[/i] He put a hand upon his companion's shoulder. “Annah-” “Arabella,” she said, correcting him. “Sure. You've paid me to take you this far, and I'll try to get you to Orvston before sundown, but I can't make any promises. I'll have to check in with with the Captain before I can break camp and take you to town.” She smiled again. “That's fine. Probably wouldn't have made it this far on my own, so waiting a little while longer won't kill me. And … it's been nice, having someone to watch over me, like this.” Something passed through her expression, an intensity that spoke of layers beneath her words. Was she honestly this thankful? “Anyway, I just wanted to say...” A shadow fell across Kaerun's mind, a gentle presence that had an air of timidity about it. It was the soft probing of Will through the surface of his thoughts, hesitant to sift through what it found but never quite shying away from the deed. Connor. [i]He's getting better,[/i] Kaerun mused. [i]A much lighter touch this time.[/i] If nothing else he'd reached a point where his sending was stronger than anything Kaerun could manage himself. There was a glimmer of something like pride in that, that he could have served to witness the growth of one of their number in strength of Will. It kept people like the Cub alive when things got grim and bloody; the toothless ones who never bothered to improve or experiment were always the first to fall and the easiest to forget. Sometimes he remembered the ones who tried. Sometimes. “... talked to them in years, but I just know they will.” Arabella met his eyes as he turned his attention away from the world within. “You know?” “Sure.” It took them only a few minutes to pull their supplies from the saddle bags. Once he was assured that everything had made the trip in intact – not that he had much in the way of possessions, nor did his companion – he dispatched Arabella to go house the horse while he set about erecting his tent. Muscle memory did the work for him – centuries of tentmaking left little room for conscious thought – while he let himself relax. As he finished the sound of footsteps drew his attention to a young girl with a scrap of paper in her hand. She passed it off wordlessly and departed right after. [i]My Tent. Now.[/i] Terse, tense, ominous. It suited the aura of … whatever it was that the Captain tried to project. A strange young man, their Captain. But one worthy of respect in the few direct exchanges he'd had with the Company's illustrious leader. Most who led soldiers into battle had little regard for those that perished under their command; the Captain was different. Or as different as one could be … war was hardly a new profession, and there were certain immutable necessities and dark decisions that couldn't ever be avoided. But he tried. And he imposed a code of honor to try to shape others the way he shaped himself, and that was commendable. Taking only a few more moments to gather up his blade and a warm coat – he'd begun to feel the chill at last – he left for the Captain's tent, falling in with the others who were similarly summoned. Seeing them reassured a nagging doubt that he hadn't quite been able to articulate. [i]Did I ever inform the Captain I'd taken on a side job as an escort?[/i] He could not for the life of him remember if he'd asked or not, but he supposed it didn't matter. If this was a broad summons then whatever it was the Captain needed him for, it wasn't to berate him for his absent-mindedness (or worse, breaking codes of conduct … was this against their oath, or in violation of a bylaw?). It was hard to keep up with the rules of mercenary companies – most of them were ground into dust by the time he even memorized their symbols and company name, though this one might prove to the be the exception. There was one more thing in the back of his mind … something else he couldn't quite … Blackcurrant! Blueberries and a hint of blackcurrant! [i]Where in the name of all the thrice-damned gods did the whiskeymaker get their hands on blackcurrant?[/i] Now utterly untroubled, Kaerun followed the others into their commander's tent. Arabella returned shortly after he departed and found herself abandoned, without explanation or apology, in the midst of a camp of cutthroat mercenaries and professional killers. At least she'd held on to the whiskey.