How many times had he'd been pushed to cross the borders between this place and Serendipity? Actually, he didn't keep count. Though it was enough to warrant a sigh from his lips. Yates did not like the hassle of dealing with the guards at the outposts, or rather finding a way into the country through his favourite mode of travel: Hiding in the back of merchant carts or caravans. Either way, each always ended with him being battered and bruised. One less than the other. Riding with merchandise could be utterly brutal not to mention wrecking havoc on his nerves. With the smallest actions he took, he needed to make sure it did not cause enough ripples to cast him in chains different from what he was used to wearing. The last thing he wanted was to add more to that weight.
Those chains, that debt, was what brought him specifically to Ketra. The Witch had an odd way of sending him off on tasks whenever he wandered too close to where it all began; like an dog, if left alone to meander he would find himself on the path towards home again no matter where he had been spun away to. His senses being flooded with the familiar would drive him off the path he was supposed to travel. The ache in his chest, the guilt, beckoned him to keep walking in hopes of finding the forgiveness which will never be his. It was a distraction. And then the voices of the Witch would rise and tell him to keep moving. Never stop.
Yates plunged his arms all the way up to his elbows into a horse's water trough. It wasn't the most hygienic thing he has ever done and the mare beside him gave him a funny look, if that was possible it was really close to the mark, but it allowed him some relief. The cool embrace of water, even if it had been warmed by the summer's sun, was a small comfort. Now only if he could plant his entire body in there. Parts of his tattered clothing floated away from his arms and the dirty bandages began to unravel. He'd have to replace both soon, he was losing his ability to pass as a nobleman in fancy travel clothing. Now Yates simply looked like the man he was; a person who obviously stole those clothes. Safe to say, he was a tad more scraggily and scruffy than regular. The last few days had been harsher than he expected.
He reluctantly dragged his arms out of the water only to have the burning envelop them. This was what he was working for; to see the patches of his skin not graced by the black markings. But it meant more than that; it meant freedom. Yet it seemed every step he took forward he tripped and fell on the next one. Yates bandaged up what he could from what was left of the strips of cloth. The horse beside him shook, batting away flies. He patted her on the side and gave a small smile. "Sorry." He said. Apologizing to a horse, that was new.
Yates adjusted his sheath were his sword hung, arms dripping wet, and then kissed the ring on his finger for luck. It was time to get moving.
