Bajötvár CH3

Chapter 3
Arvern scanned the wooded track ahead off the carts, looking for the
fork in the road. They had been traveling uphill for about two hours. The descent down bajötszikla was always shorter than the arduous climb. The pair had recounted tales about their respective childhoods and in particular Kitakör’s recent experiences with a local girl who he had taken a liking to.
Much mirth and wisdom was shared between the duo for the next few
miles along as they walked, turning every so often to continue with the winding mountain path. Many theories were tried and subsequently shot down through careful reasoning as to what Istvárok could be making, the most funny being a catapult to launch the ever present village rats at raiding half orcs that always came down from the caves near the peaks of bajötszikla in the summer. Arvern laughed until his sides were sore at the outlandish thought of a rat climbing up one of the brute’s pant legs, creating much mayhem. Something would have to be done about those marauders some day though, he thought.
The two began to make more headway along the track, once stopping
to readjust the saddle apparatus on the smaller of the two mules. The broken ground of the lower third of the mountain began to be replaced by the woods and ponds of the mid-mountain, the forests became denser and denser eventually becoming nature’s palisade against those who did not follow the road, like Arvern and Kitakör did.
“We must be careful” Arvern said, “bandits tend to lurk in the thick
wooded bogs of the mid mountains.”
As if to underline the point, a crossbow quarrel slammed into a tree
-THWACK- cutting Kitakör slightly across the bridge of his nose, drawing a ruby bead of blood. He stood there in a state of complete shock, utterly rooted into the ground.
“OhmygoshImhit” he thought his mind hurtling faster than the bolt had,
which was now lodged up to its flights in the elm trunk behind him. A flood of emotions washed over him: fear, anger, a sudden desire to wet himself, and numbness to the rest of life. Nothing but getting out of that thicket right then mattered. Not Arvern. Not the shipment. So he ran.
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Arvern made peace with his personal deity. He was resigned to his fate,
but he resolved not to die without making the blood price a heavy hit to the brigands. He rifled through his knapsack to find his woodaxe, spying it wedged underneath a copy of “Laszlök: the traveling mage of Eiretok”. He pulled it out, but the bearded blade caught the edge of the sack. He struggled shaking the haft to loosen the bag, even going so far as to whack the baghandle weapon against the tree. He looked quite the fool. He suddenly put his foot down on the bag while heaving with all his upper body strength of the axe handle, white knuckling it -RIP- Arvern received a shower of personal items raining in a 5 foot radius around him for his folly. Arvern was undeterred at the material loss, they were only things, he reminded himself. Clutching his axe he rushed at the grove from which the bolt had come forth.
He began to shout as he charged, working himself into a rage “I'll make
you regret attacking the innocent, you sons of…” -THUD- Arvern looked down to see an arrow had sprouted from his chest.


**NOTE: I'm going on vacation for a week so no guarantees on amount of content.