Rasnake(7)

They all had the trademark look of thieves, which was really just a catch-all phrase for all sorts of criminals. Most distinct perhaps was the hair; every one of them wore their hair in a mass of braids or dreadlocks, decorated with tokens, beads, other decorative items. They wore light, sturdy leather armor rather than heavier metal—and all had the same small tattoo somewhere on their person, of a stylized dragon with a sword through it, within a circle that was thicker on one end, thinner on the other—almost like a crescent moon but a complete circle.

That meant followers, and the dragon with a sword…followers of Rasnake. These men considered Cecil their leader. Definitely interesting, that. They were all talking in cant, idly motioning and speaking to someone Tallant could not see. But then they shifted, and he could see all too well—and gods have mercy, but Milton would kill him if he knew the thoughts filling Tallant's head at that moment.

Cecil was washing at the well, currently covered in soap and water—and absolutely nothing else. If it bothered him to have an audience while he bathed, he gave no sign of it. He simply conversed with them, all the while soaping, scrubbing, and rinsing.

He definitely had the same tight, lean, muscular build as his brother, but Tallant thought Cecil might be more muscled. They were neither of them the sort of oversized muscle-heads that Milton like to get into fights with when he was drunk, but there was good reason they always beat said muscle-heads.

More striking than that, however, were the scars—there were dozens of them. Burns, cuts, scrapes, puncture wounds, slash wounds. Cecil looked as though he had lived through a war or two. On his chest, right over his heart, was the sword and dragon tattoo, with a star above it that symbolized his leadership status.

He saw another tattoo as Cecil lifted his arms to wash out his hair. A tree covered the entirety of the inside of his right forearm, a beautiful apple tree done in black, green, and red ink. Tallant wondered what the significance of that was, and if he'd had elf traditions in mind when he'd put it in the place a battle-bond should go.

The tattoo was covered up, drawing Tallant from his musings, and he could not help but watch as the rest of Cecil's impressive form was covered up. Tallant realized abruptly that Cecil was now wearing shooting gloves and bracers, in addition to his regular leather armor. He'd also fixed his hair, rebraiding it with the ease of familiarity, weaving in tokens and beads. He looked like a prince of thieves.

Tallant and Milton were hardened soldiers; they had been through shit that still gave Tallant the occasional nightmare. A battle mage did not gain the number of tattoos he bore by leading an easy life. But he felt like a fragile, spoiled lord next to the hard look on Cecil's otherwise handsome face. He didn't know what to say, or even think, as the others handed over weapons for Cecil to strap into place—a quiver of arrows, at least four daggers, and a heavy sword belt that held not one, but two swords.

"I thought you said your brother was a scholar," Tallant said.

Milton shook his head, looking sad and lost. "When I left, my brother could not even hold a sword properly, and he could not bear to watch as the hunters brought in the day's kills because the sight of dead animals made him cry." He shoulders hunched. "I did not think my brother would have become this much of a stranger. I—he hates me, Tallant."

Tallant glanced again at Cecil, turning over the words and actions of the past half hour. "I don't think he hates you. I think this situation is complicated."

"Yeah," Milton said, not sounding convinced. He reached up unconsciously to grasp the locket hanging around his throat, an oval locket bearing the Holy Star, with a lock of Irene's hair inside. "If that's how my brother greets me, I don't think I want to see Irene after we rescue her." His mouth twisted, and Tallant had never seen Milton look so damned sad. "Not that it really matters what my brother's wife thinks of me."

"It will be all right," Tallant said, slipping into his native language. Milton didn't have much patience for learning other languages; it was why he knew even less cant than Tallant. But over the years, he had managed to teach Milton his native language.

"I hope you're right," Milton said, "because I don't know where I'll go if I'm not allowed to finally come home." He turned and walked away. Tallant did not follow, knowing Milton wanted some time alone. Instead, he turned his attention back to the Cecil and the other men—and drew up short, startled, as he met pale, sharp green eyes. Everything seemed to go still, quiet, and Tallant found it strangely difficult to breathe.

Then Cecil looked away, and the moment broke.

Tallant shivered, feeling bereft, a low ache in his chest. He'd never seen such sad eyes. Just how badly broken was Cecil? He reached up to feel his own pendant, then, the fate token that was the only personal possession he'd taken with him when he'd left his family and country forever.

Fate was a strong belief amongst his people, and it was a belief that Tallant still clung to fervently. A person's fate took real shape as he came of age, and it was on his Age Day that a young man or woman's fate was read, and written out forever on a small piece of stone.

On the day his fate was read to him, the Fate Reader had said simply your destiny lies with wild dogs. He and his family had been more than a little confused, as had the Reader, because dogs weren't native to his homeland. The only dogs around either came with traders, or were owned by foreigners who had settled there, and none of them was wild.