Over the past couple weeks Mosur had been watching the patrols and the men on the wall. He knew their patrol times, their patrol routes, when they changed shifts, and which ones were slack at their jobs, especially when the Marshal wasn’t on the wall. That’s really what he had to wait for. Jarrick often took evening shifts himself on the wall with the guards, it was early morning before he retired and an hour or so more before the new guards had settled into a slower pace.
There was a young lookout on the wall, he was new, brought in by the Grand Marshal. There had been no activity since he’d arrived and the morning shift seemed to have gotten to him. He let himself find distractions in minor activities, and that was all the shaman needed. Nothing had happened for the past several weeks and things were back to normal it seemed. Complacency had slipped in. Neither Koryander nor Zaanthe would be up for several more hours, it was the perfect time. That’s when he slipped out of the inn’s window landing with four paws on the ground. He made his way around the wall nearest the cliff-side inlet, keeping to the shadows and what available cover the Fjord offered while putting distance between himself and the keep. If he was seen they might think him a wild animal, he didn’t advertise the fact he could take on the spirit wolf’s form and it wasn’t something he did often. There weren’t many shaman in Templars either, though perhaps some knew of the ability. He would be discovered missing before they put that together, he surmised.
Mosur ran north till he reached his destination, an old rock now growing splotches of lichen, on it carved a name and some fond words. Hardly a worthy eulogy. “Sometimes we come back to dig up our secrets, don’t we,” he muttered and began to dig behind the make-shift gravestone. He found the dig considerably easier this time, five feet down and he struck the familiar heavy chest. Dirt and time had damaged the outside of the leather-bound container, though it remained safe from the elements. Opening the box’s simple latches Mosur stared at its contents for a while-old vestments and armor-then nodded to himself.
He closed the lid of the now-empty chest and filled the dirt back in effortlessly. He turned, looking across the wilds and nodded. He knew exactly where to go. Once more ground passed under paw, he thought it would be harder for anyone to track him this way. He wove through the trees taking longer paths than necessary and wound about trails until he grew close to the camp. Finally, he slowed and stood and stretched into the appropriate form, happy to once more shake off the fur. He walked into the encampment and glanced around for his tools, his materials. His brows rose at the sight of them. There were plenty. ‘Good’, he thought. It meant one or two would be expendable while he became familiar with the material once more.
The shaman sat heavily on the ground and placed the chests contents next to him. He wanted a moment’s rest and to finally take the bandages off his arm. He doubted he would be going back to the Templars’ keep anymore now.
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