LOG: Vinay del Zexay
It was early morning, a little before dawn. The sky was no longer dark and studded with stars, but a dull blue, fading to paler shades in the east. The air was still and cool. Very little was moving to disturb the sleepy calm, save for a few needles at the tops of the tallest pines outside of the castle grounds. Even the acrid scent of smoke still lingered, unmoved where the trees were scorched into bare, blackened wood.
Even Clive, seated upon the edge of the fountain, was taking care to sit quietly and still, his hands resting on his knees, his pack at his feet, and his long rifle leaned up against the stonework beside his leg. His black cloak was wrapped about his shoulders and his hood was up against the damp chill in the air. The gunner was frowning down at his knees, his brow furrowed while his mind wandering in thought. Only a rusty-coloured patch on the leg of his trousers marked where he had been shot, and even that had been carefully stitched.
It was a cold morning, typical of spring. A little overnight frost still glittered on the grass and sloping rooftops, but the gunner remained seated in an attitude of patience. He was waiting.