Morning came early for the once-Knight.  His years of campaigning had left their mark on him, and old habits died hard.  He was a professional through and through, and had never softened with the end of the War.  No wife and children, no white picket fence or illustrious castle for him.  The sun was just creeping over the edge of the horizon, the forest floor a place of greys and faint touches of light and mist, and the quiet man had already had his simple breakfast, washed and armoured.<br/><br/>Longstep was like his master.  Awake and ready to move at the same time every day.  The horse was saddled, the heavy sacks once more bound to the saddle horn, and the pair left their little camp to resume their journey.  There was a village in dire need of the stolen loot, and of the closure it's return would bring.  To know that those that had killed and maimed their people had been punished.  They would be no bother now; by the time those Orcs were ready to move against the village again, Empire soldiers would be manning the lone tower.  Local boys, the sort that would actually stand and fight to protect the village and their people.<br/><br/>He, of course, would have to move on before then; those local boys, freshly trained and drilled, would likely know the symbol so proudly emblazoned on his shield, and would be required to arrest him on sight no matter his good deeds.  The story of his life, that was.<br/><br/>The trip to the village was quiet and pleasant; not too hot in the depths of the forest, and the smells and sights were almost enough to stir some embers of pleasant memories in the depths of his heart.  He wore a tired, sad smile during the brief meeting with the towns folk, returning their things.  He accepted no more then a tiny pittance of coin, and wasn't allowed to refuse the small bundle of food and oats for him and his mount.<br/><br/>And then he was on the move once more, traveling further away from home.  It was on the road, as the sun approached the horizon and he found himself thinking of setting camp.  Near midday he had dismounted and changed, his armour neatly oiled and packed away in the now bulging saddle bags, a well crafted but otherwise simple chain shirt worn over sturdy, comfortable travelers clothes.  None of the fineries he knew as a pompous brat of a child.  Another life, that was, years ago and before the War that had made him what he was now.<br/><br/>He and Longstep drew to a stop, as the sun began to dip.  He felt as if he had lost something important, just briefly.  A tiny pang of pain somewhere in those dying embers of his heart, almost enough to bring a tear to his dull eyes.  His gaze swept the horizon, watching an eagle dive on and kill a prowling fox, the small furry animal managed one alarmed barking cry of pain and terror before it died and was carried away in the large predatory bird's claws.<br/><br/>Longstep let out a sad sounding whiney, head lowering, and his tired rider patted the proud animal's flank comfortingly.  He let out no whimpers, no prayers or lamentations.  He didn't even know how he knew, simply that he did with a calm certainty.  He was alone.<br/><br/>The road ahead would carry him to the town of Billian's Rest.  No settlement existed farther south, the great forests there were an impenetrable place that led to the foot of mountains.  Few dared brave their depths, although woodsmen and lumberjacks pecked at the ancient forest's edge with all the industrious drive humanity could muster.  South of that town was the unknown, the uncharted.  North was a new road, scarcely fifty years old that eventually led to the capital of the Empire, built to draw fresh lumber and the other bounties of the forest ever north to the heart of Civilization.<br/><br/>It would be in Billians's Rest that he would decide.  To turn north and seek selfish vengeance for the loss of his Brothers in Arms, for the crimes committed against his people and to right the atrocities of a very brutal war.  Or he would turn south, and loose himself in the forest to die a quiet and lonely death somewhere.  Which was more selfish?  Could he dredge up enough righteous hatred, was there that much life left in him?  Or would he simply fad away, remembered only as stories to scare children to do right by their mothers.