[i]Thwack. Thwack. Thwack[/i]. Came the sound of three white-fletched arrows hitting a nearby tree. Morning light was just breaking, but the avian denizens of the sparse woodland around Tradeforth had been singing their morning praises for an hour already.

Berislav had left the encampment the night previous, taking with him his bow, sword and a candle lantern he unhooked from the support of one of the tents. He hadn't been sleeping far from the captain, and eventually, the hacking, retching and spewing became too much for the scout. A night of peace, alone, would do him the world of good he thought, and so it had. If it wasn't for the persistent rain, his sopping boots, and the now water-locked earth around him, it might have been a perfect night. At least by Berislav's standards.

Approaching the sturdy Oak, Berislav pulled the bodkins from the bark, one of which had penetrated up to the socket of the arrow head. Noticing the growing rumbling in his stomach, he realized it was due time for a feed and slid the arrows back into their quiver before collecting what was his and making for the camp.

His boots sloshed through the sodden muck, causing him to nearly lose his footing a couple of times as he traipsed and trudged through the woodlands. Within a couple of hours Berislav had made it back to the edge of the camp but had missed the announcement. However, it was a different atmosphere from when he had left the night before, there was a somberness lingering in the air, taking a hold over everyone present. It was not hard from here for the scout to deduce that the captain had not made it through the night. He hung his head low for a moment before finding his groups tent and replacing the lantern he had taken last night on its hook. 

Unable to do much, Berislav wished to show some sign of respect to the late captain, and of course the rest of the band that had taken him in and given him purpose anew. With haste he made from the camp to Tradeforth and found the local Clerisy. It wasn't a difficult task, Berislav had become accustomed with the township in his travels of Westar prior to signing up with the free company he now called home.

[hr]

"[i]My son.[/i]" The church's rector greeted the scout as he entered the nave of the building, drawing the attention of Berislav who nodded in a gesture of recognition.

"[i]Your holiness."[/i] Drew the response as Berislav made his way towards the steeples entrance, examining the aisles as he passed. There were few around at this hour of the morning, those who sat or knelt quietly probably praying for some salvation. The young man had never been religious himself, something instilled in him by his Grandfather, although at one stage of his earlier life it had nearly been a very different story, thanks to a father's aspirations for his son. Places like these always conjured thoughts of Henryk, thoughts that would only flit by as Berislav would do his best to shake them off as soon as they reared their heads. He had found, over the last few years, that dwelling on such things did no good for one's head, he had experienced first hand what overthinking had done to his father and did not want to end up the same, disheveled husk. It was then his mind wandered to his father and how he was doing now, maybe Berislav would get a chance to visit him before the war fully kicked off. This, however, was unlikely as he knew full well, it could even be that his father was dead and his sister too, although he hoped otherwise.

Climbing the stairs of the steeple at pace proved an arduous task, even for a man of Berislav's physique. Halfway up the spiral staircase he ran into another cleric, "[i]You can't be here![/i]" proclaimed the shaken cleric meekly, taken aback by the harrowing, hooded figure racing towards him.

"[i]This won't take long, I am sorry.[/i]" Berislav responded through bated breath, pushing past the holy man, but being sure to take him by the wrist momentarily to ensure the cleric did not fall to an untimely death.

"[i]B-but...[/i]" The cleric tried to reason, but it was no good, the scout was already out of sight and so he followed him, the rector following suit having joined them from the nave, both curious and confused about what was happening here.

[hr]

Upon reaching the belfry of the tower, he wasted no time to catch his breath. Instead leaping at one of the three ropes, holding on tight with his hands and legs to engage the stay and slider, before he began to glide downwards, stretching out his legs to touch the ground. The effort was now made easier and the wheel and rope slid gracefully farther above him.

[i]Bong. Bong. Bong[/i]. The bell tolled, a death knell for the companies fallen commander, clearly audible over at their camp. It was short lived however, on the fifth stroke Berislav was joined by the rector and cleric who had taken chase up the stairs.

[i]"What are you doing!?"[/i] Asked the rector, voice raised as the final toll rang out.

[i]"Leave, now!"[/i] Interjected the second cleric in the wake of Berislav's silence and apparent ignorance to the question. With another nodding gesture the scout brushed past the two clergymen and rushed down the steps. He made his way through the transept and halfway down the nave before veering off course through one of the aisles, deaf to the exasperating gasps of the crowd, now greater in size, interrupting their prayers. 

Berislav threw open one of the side doors to the clerisy and quickly left the holy grounds, parading down the streets of Tradeforth, head still covered by his hood, once more returning to the free companies encampment. While hoping he had not missed anything else in his absence, he felt achieved in his actions for the late captain, sure many at the camp had taken notice and recognized the ringing of the death knell.