The Shape of Travel

[Cassian Thander]

At long last, the caravan master raised his hand.

They were stopping.

Cass had been watching the former merchant. The way he consulted the maps and conferred with scouts and guards. Always quietly. It was the only entertainment he'd found in the past few hours, even if every hushed word only built the suspense.

The caravan had been crawling along for an eternity. He remembered seeing the river, but that felt like days ago. He liked bird watching, just not when it was the only thing to do. Not when the birds could take to the sky while he was stuck riding the wagon edge for hours.

At this rate, Fellsgard felt like it might as well be on another continent.

The people were nice enough, though he would have preferred indifference. There were too many friendly faces wanting to engage. Too many eyes that might notice a sleight of hand. Too much attention that made him want to vanish.

Sometimes he did. In the evening, when he thought nobody would notice, he shifted into a starling to enjoy just a moment of unbridled freedom. Sometimes, he even slept on one of the wagons as a bird, making a few wonder where he went before he'd magically reappear from the wilderness in the morning.

He wished they wouldn't notice his absence. Not even once.

Wagon wheels creaked as one by one, they turned into a clearing, the ground worn bare and sporting grooves from countless wheels that rested here in the past. A loose semi-circle for protection established, the people went about starting campfires and tending to the animals. Caravan guards, gruff looking men and women, swapped out to let comrades rest.

Far, far too many eyes.

Before long, people settled in. Some cooked, others sang and told stories. One bard in particular was rather new to his craft, his off-key singing making Cass' skin crawl. So much so, that he slipped away through the camp, past the goat that would not shut up, and past the loud caravaner that swore he just saw a fae in the woods. That one made him hurry along, pulling his drab cloak closer as if his wings might pop out on their own. He crossed all the way to the other end of the camp, to the edge of the forest, just to get away from it all.

His feet brought him to a tall maple tree, its leaves dancing with the first signs of yellow. For a moment, he didn't know where to begin. He hadn't climbed a tree in a while. Verdant Row certainly had some, but he never found them convenient when a nearby wall was far better. This... this felt more akin to home, distant years ago, when the little cabin in the woods had trees all but cradling it.

With an expelled breath, he sprang from the ground to catch a low branch. Up and up he climbed, until he was high enough in the canopy to see the mountain range in the distant north east. Looking down, he could see a decent portion of the camp, while he was obscured by the canopy. Perfect, just until dark.

He settled against the trunk with a small smile, letting the bark dig into his back as he lounged along a thick branch. Nimble fingers found his hunting knife and fished a piece of wood, a bird figurine in the making, from a pocket.

The youth bit his lip, focusing, putting the blade against wood. He'd finished the torso of the bird, and began working on the head and the beak. Flecks began flying towards the ground with awkward shwicks of the knife.

It wasn't going well. The lines were wrong. Too sharp in some places, too soft in others. He regretted etching wings into the torso, instead of forming them properly. Now it just looked like a stubby barrel with awkward squiggles pretending to be wings.

The wood proved stubborn to work with as well, requiring more strength. Cass grunted with one such effort, and his grip slipped. The knife jerked free and spun out of his hand. He winced, stomach dropping as he watched it tumble, catching branches on the way down.

The clatter of metal on branches was too loud in the quiet.

For a moment, he held still, hoping nobody saw or heard anything. "... Sorry!" Came his voice, light and uncertain. He was relatively sure nobody was there, but old apologetic habits die hard. The young man sighed, letting his head thud back against the tree.

Great. Now he had to go get it.