Recompense for a Lost Soul

[iii] Innocence of a Life Lost

The sun rose early the next morning. Pitcher rose earlier. To be fair, he hadn't really slept much after last night's surprise visit, tossing and turning on his pile of hay got boring soon. He jumped up and decided to start his morning routine early. 

He walked over to a trough, which he knew would be full of water. Stripping to the waist, he removed his shirt and set it aside. He combed his bangs back with his hands and tied his hair in ponytail with a piece of cord he found in his pockets, whistling for Cisco to come over. 

The horse trudged towards the water trough and stuck his head into it, drinking as much water as fast as he could.

"Nope! bad horse. Leave some for me," Pitcher shouted, pulling Cisco aside by the reins. "You've had your fill, now let me have mine."

Pitcher cupped his hands and collected a dripping handful of water, which he promptly splashed on his face. He rubbed the bags under his eyes. The water was cold and it rejuvenated him. It trickled down his face and nose. Dripping down over the cut on his lip. He quickly scrubbed his upper body with his wet hands and turned back to his shirt, putting it on leisurely. 

He needed to sort out some things. Firstly, he had already decided not to fall into William's trap. No doubt the other five would also be close behind if William had started to act. 

Pitcher's brutal murder of the entire South Flags gang would have been prefect if it hadn't been for some unforeseen hurdles. To his regret, seven of the sixty total (excluding him) had survived. Overtime, news of the survivors dwindled down, eventually disappearing from the world. . . just like him. He was made aware of the confirmed survival of only one: Johnston snarleef; the mayor's advisor he had killed two days prior. After last night's encounter, one thing was made certain: his enemies were far from dead.

Six remained. Six who would almost certainly come for him. Luckily for him, he didn't have anything they could use as leverage. He had spent the last four years of his life, wandering across the Vale. He had travelled leagues on his own, sometimes by foot. Living off the land and earning what little he could through contracts and commissions. Due to this he had not made any connections nor acquire any material possessions that were not on his person. It's cause of that, probably, that they tried a ditch attempt by sending someone to kill me. They knew I would win and they were hoping that I would go for them. 

Pitcher had already decided to not go for them. 

Continuing along the road towards Riplyvil was still his primary goal. He didn't want to admit it but the town held many lures for the young boy. It drew him forward like a moth, even though he justified that he was going there to continue his eternal wandering. With it only being sixteen leagues away, he was confident he could complete the journey within a day at best. To do so he'd have to get going before the sun rose in its entirety. 

Pitcher made his way to the upper room and began to take inventory, not that there was much of it. His shirt had been white on the day he bought it. . . it now resembled a very bright gray color. He thrust his hands into his robe sleeves and donned it, adjusting the fabric and straightening the folds. Next went on his newly purchased glove. It fit pretty well, and Pitcher especially liked the breathing room for his other fingers. He grabbed his cloak last and slipped it on too, lastly slinging the satchel onto his back. His satchel was filled to its limit with every small essential he needed. His journal, water canteen, dagger and trinkets he had accumulated over time sat inside. 

He finally grabbed his sword by the sheath and carried it in his left hand, taking one last sweeping look around the place he had occupied for the week or so he had been there. Nothing was left. There's nothing to be left he contemplated, turning to stare out of the window and into the sun. 

By the time the sun was fully in the sky, rainclouds had already accumulated nearby. Rain was common in the Vale, an enormous expanse of land covering everything from lakes to forests to prairies to jungles to moors. The further North one went however, the more signs of snow one would encounter, eventually ending up at the entrance to the Great Tundra. Pitcher's destination was a few miles into the Great tundra.

He expected mostly smooth travel. As long as Cisco complied, he would be able to cover the distance fast and easily. Time to go. . .

He had started riding when the first drops of rain fell. He had his hood up, which he promptly removed. He loved the rain. And sometimes he liked to imagine that the rain loved him back. 'The delusions of a fourteen year old' his logical mind had scolded and the 'innocence of a life lost' he refuted. Regardless, he had removed his hood. Taking a long, content inhale, he smiled happily. Very few times did he get the opportunity to genuinely smile. The rain was one of them.

He went along at his steady canter, Cisco having no troubles keeping up with the speed Pitcher motioned for. His cloak fluttered behind him. Waving furiously as the wind picked up speed. Pitcher had strapped his sword and sheath horizontally, just above his hip and it was starting to press into his skin. The heavy satchel and cloak helped increase the discomfort. But he managed, his thoughts fixed on the reason he was riding to Riplyvil, The Museum of Magical Artifacts. 

Dreaming would wait, for now the young boy pushed on. Rain beat down steadily upon his back. drenching his cloak. It was cold too. The further he rode, the colder it got. Eventually his breath turned to vapor. So did Cisco's. They weren't in the snow yet. But signs of past snow began to slowly reveal themselves the closer they got to their destination. 

Bare trees stood clumped together, their bark stripped off by deer. Some fishing holes in view of the road had pieces of ice floating around in them. Pitcher grabbed the cloak's collar and pulled it tight around him. He made up his mind to buy a wool one or one with fur on the collar as soon as he found a store. He also needed to sleep somewhere with a fire or else he would die of the cold. 

These thoughts ran through his mind as he drew closer and closer, until Riplyvil was visible in the distance. It was a large town, almost like a recreational town. Its populace consisted of people in need of a holiday. Many attractions made it a good travelling destination, including the museum, an art gallery and even gardens filled with flowers that thrive in the cold. Pitcher had made up his mind to visit all of them, whether or not he could pay the fee required to enter these places was debatable. It had larger buildings made out of bricks from what he could see. Towards one side he saw a large building, its muted color scheme told him instantly that it was the museum.

He wanted to get some answers from this museum. About his sword. About his coin. About the country. . . and if possible, about himself too.

But first he needed a place to stay. His mind recalled the time he had slept on the adventurer's guild roof and a pained expression formed on his face. Perhaps I should try the inn or tavern before resorting to -um. . . sleeping on roofs. 

The town got closer and closer until Cisco's hooves thundered through the large arched sign that had the words 'Riplyvil' engraved on it. 

He wondered what surprises awaited him here as he came to a halt near the town square where a lot of people were milling around, minding their business. On a nearby pole, three crows stood next to each other. They cawed as Pitcher looked towards them. 

I better find a place to stay. . . he thought, as snowflakes began to fall from the sky.