I Won't Tell If You Don't
Posted: Sun Feb 04, 2018 3:54 am
Cylus 15, nighttime
When darkness was needed, night always fell by slow, stubborn inches that left him coiled in knots like an anxious viper.
Ivanthe had spent the last shreds of daylight puttering uselessly around the outskirts of Foster’s Landing, shortbow in hand to prove his excuse of “I’m a hunter, new to the area, just looking around.” He’d only gotten questioned two or three times, and all by concerned passerby rather than suspicious guardsfolk; he knew he shouldn’t be annoyed with his luck holding relatively steady, but he couldn’t help it.
The sun was so damn slow.
He hadn’t wanted to waste so much focus on the camp atop the hill just overlooking the little port town––if he’d had his way, people would simply leave him alone and there would be no need for skulking at all. But adults were very persistent, and they liked entitling themselves to his business whenever his answers felt too odd. Does your father look after you alright? was usually the first suspicious question, whenever he used the “He’s out hunting,” excuse to explain why no adult was ever in his camp. When he dodged the first mess, they’d begin to grow suspicious of the actual truth––when they demanded to wait for his father’s return so they might, that was where the real trouble began.
All these things are your size, the most recent unwanted visitor had commented. Does your father carry all his things with him? Ivanthe had managed to bullshit his way out of that one well enough, but it pressed home a problem he’d been putting off for some time: all of the personal effects in his camp clearly belonged to him, and an especially keen eye could spot the striking lack of adult-sized things in a supposedly adult-run home.
Ivanthe needed to deal with that before any especially keen eyes came too close for him to bullshit.
He just needed a few things to put here and there, like clothes or boots, and he couldn’t bring himself to buy them. There would be people around shops, and if someone learned he’d been the one to make the purchase instead of an actual father, the entire point was defeated.
The camp on the overlook outside town was busy, with people coming in and out in small packs fairly regularly. The few rumors he’d pried out of his concerned bystanders had mentioned a quest of some sort; there was a group of returned treasure hunters on that hill..
If it was true, then it might very well be the best chance to fix his little problem.
As soon as the shadows were long enough to hide in, Ivanthe slipped out of Foster’s Landing. He headed parallel for awhile, then came at it directly from the east opposite the last shades of violet on the horizon. There he paced, a cub not quite confident enough to brave a den of strangers.
By the time things quieted enough for the boy to finally slink out of the roughage, the moon was risen and the murmur of supper had long since died down.
There were still people moving here and there, but they were few and far enough to hear clearly; Ivanthe was hyperaware of everything that reached his ears, and it kept him from even stepping foot between the tents proper. He’d thought this through, and he hated they way his terror crippled him. He needed this. He needed just a few tiny things to base excuses on––he needed anything that could help ward off unwanted eyes.
There was a burned-out fireplace on the northernmost edge of the camp, only a few glowing embers amongst the ash with no one to keep them alive much longer, and beyond that was a wagon. Ivanthe was almost tempted to disregard it––the thing was empty save for some barrels that he had neither the strength nor interest to make a pass at––but he stopped dead in his tracks when he got close enough to see the side.
Clothes. Freshly washed clothes, fitted for great mountains of men, hung over the wagon walls to dry overnight. And between the wheels, yes, Ivanthe could see boots!
Temptation yanked on him like a leash. There was no one in sight, but that meant he had to do something now; he just needed one thing, a single pair of boots would be enough.
When darkness was needed, night always fell by slow, stubborn inches that left him coiled in knots like an anxious viper.
Ivanthe had spent the last shreds of daylight puttering uselessly around the outskirts of Foster’s Landing, shortbow in hand to prove his excuse of “I’m a hunter, new to the area, just looking around.” He’d only gotten questioned two or three times, and all by concerned passerby rather than suspicious guardsfolk; he knew he shouldn’t be annoyed with his luck holding relatively steady, but he couldn’t help it.
The sun was so damn slow.
He hadn’t wanted to waste so much focus on the camp atop the hill just overlooking the little port town––if he’d had his way, people would simply leave him alone and there would be no need for skulking at all. But adults were very persistent, and they liked entitling themselves to his business whenever his answers felt too odd. Does your father look after you alright? was usually the first suspicious question, whenever he used the “He’s out hunting,” excuse to explain why no adult was ever in his camp. When he dodged the first mess, they’d begin to grow suspicious of the actual truth––when they demanded to wait for his father’s return so they might, that was where the real trouble began.
All these things are your size, the most recent unwanted visitor had commented. Does your father carry all his things with him? Ivanthe had managed to bullshit his way out of that one well enough, but it pressed home a problem he’d been putting off for some time: all of the personal effects in his camp clearly belonged to him, and an especially keen eye could spot the striking lack of adult-sized things in a supposedly adult-run home.
Ivanthe needed to deal with that before any especially keen eyes came too close for him to bullshit.
He just needed a few things to put here and there, like clothes or boots, and he couldn’t bring himself to buy them. There would be people around shops, and if someone learned he’d been the one to make the purchase instead of an actual father, the entire point was defeated.
The camp on the overlook outside town was busy, with people coming in and out in small packs fairly regularly. The few rumors he’d pried out of his concerned bystanders had mentioned a quest of some sort; there was a group of returned treasure hunters on that hill..
If it was true, then it might very well be the best chance to fix his little problem.
As soon as the shadows were long enough to hide in, Ivanthe slipped out of Foster’s Landing. He headed parallel for awhile, then came at it directly from the east opposite the last shades of violet on the horizon. There he paced, a cub not quite confident enough to brave a den of strangers.
By the time things quieted enough for the boy to finally slink out of the roughage, the moon was risen and the murmur of supper had long since died down.
There were still people moving here and there, but they were few and far enough to hear clearly; Ivanthe was hyperaware of everything that reached his ears, and it kept him from even stepping foot between the tents proper. He’d thought this through, and he hated they way his terror crippled him. He needed this. He needed just a few tiny things to base excuses on––he needed anything that could help ward off unwanted eyes.
There was a burned-out fireplace on the northernmost edge of the camp, only a few glowing embers amongst the ash with no one to keep them alive much longer, and beyond that was a wagon. Ivanthe was almost tempted to disregard it––the thing was empty save for some barrels that he had neither the strength nor interest to make a pass at––but he stopped dead in his tracks when he got close enough to see the side.
Clothes. Freshly washed clothes, fitted for great mountains of men, hung over the wagon walls to dry overnight. And between the wheels, yes, Ivanthe could see boots!
Temptation yanked on him like a leash. There was no one in sight, but that meant he had to do something now; he just needed one thing, a single pair of boots would be enough.