Fall in Spring

A Chanced Meeting

Hell.

It's the only word that Rhoswyn of Astolat thinks is accurate enough to describe what the past month had been. A month of hiding in ditches and trees; of wondering whether she'd make it through another night; whether, she, like her companions, would fall foul of the curse that lay over the Marches, or whether she'll find herself surrounded by a force of Jotun.

The latter is unlikely, but it still haunts her nightmares night after night until she wakes in a cold-sweat reaching for her sword only to realise there is nothing there, that she is alone. After the horrors she had witnessed in Overton, it isn't easy for Rhoswyn to let her guard down.

Still, so long as she reaches the other side of the River, got out of these accursed lands, she'll be safe. Safe - the word feels different, almost bitter on her tongue. She cannot remember the last time she has felt any measure of safety, she wonders if she ever will again.

No, as long she reaches Seren, everything should be fine.

It's the only hope Rhoswyn has to cling to, the only thing that has kept her trudging day after day even after losing the companions she had escaped Orchard's Watch with. Most had died of their wounds, wounds she could not heal, others simply fell to whatever curse there was until Rhoswyn was the only one left.

Rhoswyn sighs, grimacing as she straightens. During the escape she had managed to injure her ankle, and whilst the bone wasn't broken, trudging through forests and brambles as fast she dared, hasn't helped. Her magic is still too depleted for her to do anything but occasionally ease the pain, and whilst she has been able to strap it up, it still meant for slow going.

To make matters worse, she is running low on water and with whatever malign spring magic has cursed the land, the water has become foul, tepid and lethal. Only a day after their escape, Rhoswyn watched helplessly as someone drank from a nearby river, only for them to die hours later. She did her best to ration what little was left in her waterskin, but now there is none left, even the wine is gone.

If she couldn't make Seren, then she has to make the river by nightfall at the very least. As much as Rhoswyn wants to lie down and rest, she knows that if she has any chance of achieving that goal she must leave now.

Hauling herself out of the ditch that has been her meagre shelter for the night, Rhoswyn heads for the road. A huge risk but Rhoswyn judges that she is now far enough away from Overton that the risk of running into Jotun is next to none. Anyway, the risk will be worth it, if somehow she happens across someone who might be able to help or at least, point her in the right direction.

But the road is deserted - Rhoswyn doesn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

Hours seemingly pass by, the road feels endless. Tiredness starts to take over, her head begins to pound, her throat dry and parched and it's almost an effort of will to put one foot in front of the other. Somewhere, the part of her that is still thinking straight, is aware that she is on the verge of dehydration, that unless she finds help or water soon, she's in deep trouble.

But there's no sign of river or stream, or even any rain.

Rhoswyn rubs her eyes furiously, she should stop, maybe rest but she knows she has to keep going. If she stops now she doubts she'd get back up again.

Suddenly there's the sound of people. Rhoswyn freezes, she's sure she's imagining it, that her mind is playing tricks on her. Yet as she turns there's a contingent of soldiers, about twenty of them, marching their way towards her. Their banner - a white rose set against a blazing sun on a powder blue sky clearly visible in the afternoon sun.

It doesn't take Rhoswyn long to realise that this is a Dawnish contingent. Relief sweeps through her, so much so, that she almost laughs. For once, The Way is smiling down upon her.