A Distinct Lack of Urgency[Jasper]

When the commander summoned him to his tent late one evening, Hunt had been certain the man was going to demote him. He'd threatened to court martial him only a few days prior, but he knew an empty threat when he heard one. Farrins liked picking on him too much. Why get rid of a perfectly good scapegoat for no reason? The man might hate him, but he wasn't an entire fool.

The captain would allow it was warranted. He had torched the man's personal tent. Including his down stuffed mattress, bamboo pillows, a icebear hide rug, four of his favorite coats, a frost gator skin boots, and, perhaps most importantly, his entire collection of vintage meads, wines, and ports that he had imported from all over the kingdom and parts of Taknier. And no, it had not been an accident.

Hence why he was a scout. Regular soldiers went on large, safe patrols or manned Wolvstadt, or the Grand Duke's fort. Scouts were given the 'honor' of leading small teams behind enemy lines to gather information about raids and the status of their main camp. Only more dangerous than it was vague. Normally, it was the sort of punishment that lasted a scouting run or two. But his was a permanent post. Every foray was another chance to put an end to everything. And yet every time, he found himself doing everything he could to make sure the men with him came back. 

But he wasn't demoted. Instead of ripping off his patch of rank, the Commander had handed him a roll of parchment and told him he was to leave immediately and report back to him upon his return.

Hunt stared at the broken royal seal, debated even reading it at all, finally let his curiosity get the better of him and then only got as far as "crowned prince" and promptly crumpled the missive in his hand and dropped it like it was poisonous. 

"Royal bastard," he growled in Taknieri.

He spent an hour pacing back and forth, arguing with Kaz loud enough that most of the other scouts were worried their captain had in fact been court martialed. Not that most of them understood a word being said. In the end, the other soldier convinced him to go with a solid slap and softer promises to keep things together while he was gone.

Hunt rode overnight, but didn't push his stallion, arriving at Draufganger Palace late the following evening. Had he arrived on time, during the daylight, he would have passed through the main gate easily, as the palace grounds were open to commoners. But the sun was set, the sky was an orangish-purple, and an early flurry of snow was drifting over the Red Guards who manned the closed gate.

"The palace is closed to visitors," one of the men in front said tiredly as Hunt pulled his white stallion to a halt. Both horse and rider were sore and tired and hungry and the rider especially didn't want to be here.

Hunt frowned. This was the part where he knew he should have kept that missive. But he'd thrown it away on purpose. "Quite unfortunate," he mumbled. "I was summoned."

"Present your paperwork," the man said, nearly walking over him. The sheer lack of enthusiasm for his job almost made Hunt laugh, wondering how often he went through this with people. He seemed very practiced.

"I don't have it on me. Even more unfortunate," he said, turning his mount around.

"The gates open at sunrise. Come back then."