Post by Annasiel on Feb 3, 2021 21:37:14 GMT
In all the stories about knights travelling to far off lands, of parties of adventurers exploring the countryside for lost tombs and ancient treasures, the travel was almost never part of the story. Certainly, the storytellers would show the conversations the party had, many of which took place on the road, but conversation was only a small part of the voyage - there were many silent hours spent trekking through dirt and mud, forging rivers, and stomping thistles flat before they had a chance to snag their already meager, thorn-torn, soil-stained clothes, and it was in these long stretches of strain that Owain's patience began to wear thin. He was no stranger to the outdoors, of course, nor unaccustomed to physical labor. He was a farmer's son. Much of his latter life had been spent toiling in fields, regardless of the weather, for hours at a time. But between the stress of their predicament, the ache in his body from sleeping on the ground three days in a row, and the faint mist drizzle that had persisted the entire morning, soaking him clean to the bone, he was - to put it lightly - quite irritable.
"We shoulda gotten feckin' horses," he grumbled, stomping a stinging nettle bush that had just brushed his ankle into the dirt. His leg was already beginning to itch, so he gave it a couple more stomps in retribution. "Didn' see any 'round the town, but there coulda been. We coulda looked harder. But no, we didn' get any, an' now we gotta walk in this godforsaken feckin' forest with no horses."
He levelled a glare at each of his companions in turn, as if daring them to disagree or, perhaps, daring them to agree, if only as an invitation to continue his ranting. When his eyes eventually settled on Lochlan, though, they narrowed.
"Thought ye said there wassa tawn northerly here. We've been walkin' fer three whole days, so where's it? Only tawn I see 'round me is a tawn o' feckin' trees."
Owain laughed dryly at his joke, but it was cut short, descending into cusses as he stepped into another nettle patch. He stomped this one into the ground, too, then ground it beneath his heel, bending down to tuck his pants back into his boots with a grimace. As he rose, he stretched, pausing a moment to lean against a tree and wait for Loch's reply.
"We shoulda gotten feckin' horses," he grumbled, stomping a stinging nettle bush that had just brushed his ankle into the dirt. His leg was already beginning to itch, so he gave it a couple more stomps in retribution. "Didn' see any 'round the town, but there coulda been. We coulda looked harder. But no, we didn' get any, an' now we gotta walk in this godforsaken feckin' forest with no horses."
He levelled a glare at each of his companions in turn, as if daring them to disagree or, perhaps, daring them to agree, if only as an invitation to continue his ranting. When his eyes eventually settled on Lochlan, though, they narrowed.
"Thought ye said there wassa tawn northerly here. We've been walkin' fer three whole days, so where's it? Only tawn I see 'round me is a tawn o' feckin' trees."
Owain laughed dryly at his joke, but it was cut short, descending into cusses as he stepped into another nettle patch. He stomped this one into the ground, too, then ground it beneath his heel, bending down to tuck his pants back into his boots with a grimace. As he rose, he stretched, pausing a moment to lean against a tree and wait for Loch's reply.