It was a cold morning, and the forest canopy was thick enough that very little sun could piece it's foliage. Tsorn woke easily, instantly aware of every kink and sore in his body. He yawned, pulling the blanket wrapped around him snug, bidding warmth goodbye as the haze of rest fled. A freezing drop of water fell down his back then and repressed a growl. Untying the strap that held him in the tree, he steadied himself so he didn't loose his balance and fall twenty feet to the ground, in trying to stand. Shrugging off his blanket, he lifted his pack from where it had hung beneath him, off the branch he'd slept on. Riffling through it, he pulled out his morning rations and chewed it slowly. As he ate, he whistled absently to find out where Leon had gone. A quiet cooing came from above, but it took a few more exchanges to spot Leon. The Spying Spiegal's ability to blend into its surroundings was surprisingly useful, and even Tsorn lost track of him every once and a while, needing their game of echo to pinpoint him. Sometimes when Leon was being more playful he'd move spots during their conversation just to confuse Tsorn. Thankfully Leon wasn't as playful this morning.
Tsorn clicked twice, dismissing the Watcher to go find his breakfast, as he himself followed his own morning routines. Carefully lowing his gear to the ground, then following himself, took some time. The tree was a tall oat, meaning its lower limbs were few and far in between. What few there had been, Tsorn had hacked off on his ascent the night before. He slept in trees because out in the Wildens the ground after nightfall was especially dangerous. He trimmed the limbs similarly, because there were even some climbing beasts out here, and he wasn't going to leave them any advantage if he could help it. Once safely back on the ground, Tsorn saw to his equipment.
Starting with his weapons, he sharpened, polished and oiled each one. With his life in their effectiveness, they were his first priority. Then he took stock, down the the gram, of everything on his person. Food, medicine, gear, supplies. Every morning, so he always knew exactly what he had, how much, and where they were. Again, if his life ever came down to knowing if he had a twelve foot rope or a twenty foot, he wasn't going to be the fool. That was how his father taught him; and there was no better Slayer in the Nine Valleys than Gregger Valten. Even Earl Tilbour said so. But the world was a big place and Tsorn always had the feeling he was living in small shadows, never really glimpsing anything real.
"Leon." Come about. Tsorn whistled. If I'm going to surpass him, it won't be waiting here, He thought, trudging into the misty forest.
Two hours later, Tsorn held up as Leon screeched sharply, winging down to his shoulder. But he didn't need the Watcher's warning. He could clearly see the marking the beast had laid at its territory. As if the putrid mucus spewed over everything wasn't enough, several nearby trees had been scarred deeply, with smaller trees uprooted; it gave the clearing a general atmosphere of desolation. But the trail he was following lead right through it into a narrow gully. The ridges walls were sharp, leading as far in either direction as Tsorn could tell, and if he left the path to try around there was no guarantee he'd be able to find it again on the other side. The gully itself was foreboding, dark and narrow, hard to move it with a trickle of water running through it so the earth would be well soaked and hard to move through. The lips of the crest, well covered with foliage. A crowned Elephant-Wyrm could have been hiding up there and Tsorn wouldn't have known the difference.
"Well buddy?" He asked, looking over at Leon. The little wyrm keened uncertainly.
"A great help you've been." He said, rubbing the Spiegal's head reassuringly none the less. "Well, you've got to fall before you can fly," he said, pushing into the little valley. Holding Torg, his trusted spear, up before him he walk sideways, keeping his profile parallel to the valley ready to charge or retreat at a moment's notice. He ignored Leon's fluttering wings, shuffling against his head and shoulder.
"Gonna abandon me at the first sign of trouble? Yeah, I don't blame you."
Leon trilled as if offended, but continued to shake like day old kitten. The hollow was only a hundred paces long, but crossing it felt like an eternity. Despite the cold, sweat dripped from Tsorn like it was mid summer. Every rustle in the eves brought his hackles to bare, and he felt certain something was watching them hungrily. But they reached the other side of the gully eventually, without any incident.
And as soon as they did, Tsorn knew they were in trouble. His quarry was vicious. Killing Barking Grecks as a territory dispute was evidence of that. But what it just showed was far worse than ferocity. What it displayed in letting them enter its territory was cold, and calculating intelligence. Worse than that, it was patience. And patience and intelligence in such a beast, was the worst like of hunt. He doubted it would let him leave as easily as he had entered. It could tell he was taunt, and it was letting him stew in his own fear. Letting him exhaust himself. Shifting his sweat soaked grip on Torg, he scanned the open forest, knowing he wasn't going to spot it. "Leon, I don't know what we've gotten ourself into." He said with a grown smile. "But this is going to be fun."
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