Re: VII - The Pass
Roberts mounts his horse, waiting patiently for the others to fall in line behind him before ascending the slope a second time. The bounty hunter remains wary, watching both sides of the trail for any hint of movement, but perceiving none. The posse makes the ascent without incident and soon all are riding westward at a steady pace.
The trail narrows, taking on the appearance of a deer path, as opposed to a route used by riders. Boulders dot the steady upgrade, along with a few pines, piñons, and cottonwoods, their trunks and leaves pale gray, the life leeched out of them by whatever calls the mountain home. Occasionally, the wind speaks, its tone soft and weighed with sadness, but aside from its voice, and the occasional nicker from one of the horses, stillness prevails. The gentle, barren slope passes by at an even pace, the mounts keeping finding easy purchase on the chalky ground.
As the group climbs, each of the riders has the experience of perceiving movement nearby: a figure peering from behind a boulder, a shadow flitting from the trunk of one tree to another, something following the line of horses from behind, darting in and out of cover. The motion always appears in the rider’s peripheral vision, vanishing completely whenever it is focused on directly.
As the sun begins to settle into the west, the dark line of the pine forest comes into view. Almost as soon as it does, a light snow descends, its widespread flakes tossed about by gusts of wind. The breath of the horses and riders steam, clouds of white vapor that vanish against the washed out terrain of the pass. For an instant, all hear the tones of a woman’s voice, sounding the opening notes of a sad ballad, the name of which escapes its hearers. The music is there, then gone, banished by the rustling of frost laden tree limbs.
The forest pushes out the remaining light of the late afternoon, ushering evening in early. Roberts presses forward into the woods, and some notice that the packed earth they ride over is marked with the aged ruts of wagon wheels. Soon, a stone overhang, granite the color of charcoal, parts the foliage on the right side of the trail. It is wide and almost forty feet in length, attached to an angled cliff, its wall smooth from erosion. Roberts urges his horse toward it, then dismounts, hitching the animal on one of the shale colored tree trunks.
”Last place the train made camp,” he tells the others as he starts to build a smoke. Above, the snowfall increases, finding gaps between the shadowy branches overhead.
OOC: Provided the group agrees with Roberts’ plan to make camp, they wil likely need to set an overnight watch. Any of the NPCs will be willing to keep watch at any hour that is assigned to them.