One of the many benefits of being a free man was that there was no one who dictated when you slept and when you awoke. It was something that he had gotten quite accustomed to over the years, only waking up before noon if a carriage was passing by or the camp needed to be moved. Some would say Cromwell had grown lax with his desertion because of this. But in all honesty, it kept him sharper than he would have been. The monotonous routine of rising before dawn to train before cleaning up and meeting this person or that as they rose from their slumber, only to stand by like a statue as nothing happened, and then be relieved well into the night after it was more than certain that the person he was assigned to had fallen asleep.<br/><br/>But, of course, his paradise of unconsciousness was ruined today, as the sounds of a hesitant young man was repeatedly speaking a title he had tried and failed to leave behind in the capital:<i>"Commander, Commander...!" </i>Cromwell simply groaned and rolled over to face the tent flap at this, cracking open a single eye to stare at whoever was waking him. The newest one to their merry band -Johna, Cromwell thought his name was- was a fresh faced young human, so fresh it was his first assignment that caused him to desert. He wasn't nervous, more apprehensive of waking Cromwell before Cromwell usually got up.<br/><br/>With a slight grunt, Cromwell spoke, his voice partially muffled by sleep and his bedding.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">"What?"</span>Johna flinched a bit, probably a leftover from his training, before beginning to explain. It was a couple hours after dawn, and someone had set down the horse trail they had set up about ten minutes ago. Just one person on a good horse with a hood over their head. Cromwell groaned once more. He only had himself to blame for this. He had them make the horse trail leading past the denser thicket they had holed up in, in hopes of throwing people off their trail, or, worst case, let them set up an ambush on them.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000"> "Don't even need a shirt for this..." </span>Cromwell muttered, slowly pushing himself off of his bedding.<br/><br/>Cromwell assumed it was some rookie bounty hunter, or someone that hadn't been in the area for long. A simple bit of scare tactics, or maybe even a snatch and grab for the horse and a bit of info. Did he even need his bow for this? It would be a good idea, even if there was already a half dozen of them pointed at whoever was trotting into their trap. As Johna left the tent flap, allowing a partial bit of sunlight in before it closed, two things shone with the light. First, was metal peeking through a ragged and damaged scabbard. The second, was a pair of blood red eyes and a third, pale eye sitting above them in the center of his back.<br/><br/>Cromwell stepped out into the morning sun, squinting at the brightness, as his sword, bow, and quiver hung lazily from his right hand. He set them against his tent and leaned back, feet staying planted as his upper body bent backwards until a resounding and satisfying pop could be heard. He then grabbed the quiver, setting it on the small of his back and using it's strap like a belt. The quiver was a simple creation, refined by a second craftsman's hands to be sure. The dark leather of some minor beast treated and resewn to make it new when it should have been replaced. His bow was next. It was different, when compared to the quiver. The word was exotic, a pale color that had been stained a bone like yellow by the sun. Images of battles, of the moon, and various runes decorated the bow in some unknown but distinct pattern. It was looped over his shoulder, sitting out of the way but in a place where it was easy to grab. His blade was the final piece. It was not given it's spot on his side, instead staying within the sheath and carried like so. It's handle was old, and nearly ornate. The pommel held an abnormal green gem, one that held a strikingly clear red slit in it's core, almost looking like some eye. The handle itself was made of bands of steel, coiled around some inner core. Every other band was fitted with leather, to ensure one's grip. And finally, the cross guard was small, too small to catch blades as it was meant to, but just big enough to protect the hands of the wielder. Along the beaten scabbard was a modification, made long after Cromwell had left the capital. Smaller sheathes had been fitted on the length nearest the mouth of the scabbard, all four of them holding a compact dagger.<br/><br/>Cromwell's eyes looked to the sun as he spoke to no one in particular. "<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000"><i>So long as the lord graces the heavens, men shall chase his decree."</i></span>Once the words left his lips, his eyes closed and he stood basking in the sun for a moment, before lowering his head and opened his eyes, scanning for Johna. The young man was already at work securing their one safe entrance to their camp, making it difficult to enter but easy to leave. Not everyone needed to be roused for this, but if it was a ruse of some sort, they would need some sort of warning system. Cromwell walked over and ducked under the heavy branch that they had bent into place and marched onward, his feet dodging roots and limbs with a subconscious practice supplemented with elven heritage.<br/><br/>Before long, Cromwell was on the horse trail himself, standing in their intruder's eventual path. His back was turned in the direction that they would surely come from, showing the ghastly tattoo that adorned his back. A fiend, snarling and standing atop a crag as a blood moon hung behind it. It's crimson eyes as intimidating as the real thing, and the third just as ominous. At the sound of horse hooves, Cromwell crossed his arms and waited for the noise to stop.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000"> "You've took a wrong turn somewhere, traveler,"</span>Cromwell would announce, his voice a bit raspy  due to awakening without water, but certainly regal and practiced, an old holdover from his former position.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000"> "And we don't really like that. But, your horse looks fine and you surely are carrying something I would find interesting, so you can either leave back the way you came, or leave your things and keep going on foot. Your call.... But, I would recommend making it quick, I aint certain how much longer they can keep the bow strings taunt."</span>He had drummed it up as best he could. No one had an arrow nocked just yet, but the threat of an unknown amount of archers already taking aim was usually enough to scare off a lost traveler. And bounty hunters usually tried to throw off the aim, which would then cause everyone to begin to aim. Either way, the threat was made to be vague but potent. Now, Cromwell simply had to wait, to see if he had to draw or not.