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Gwyr had finally departed the island of debauchery and hedonism for some time, chasing the news of a contract that had finally come to reach him. More rumours than much else, but he had not left anything or anyone much of note behind and thus, felt no qualms or doubt in leaving even if only for the duration that the 'chase' took place.

Only, a chase of another sort had ended up taking place. Even with all his precautions and wariness, right up until he had made the final contact with the troubled party, the contract had been torn asunder. Having taken the care to dress in an orbansa - a long, thick, hooded cloak that when worn with a scarf, shielded all but the eyes from view -, one clumsy step from one of those accompanying the negotiator had pulled it clean back from his head. Grey-brown skin, hair the colour of old steel... and gleaming orange eyes. Even armed as he was, the former Knight had the sense of self-preservation to realise that he could not fend off five on his own, much less when encumbered by what he was wearing. Wounding three but not killing them, he had made a lunge for the trees... plunging deeper and deeper into the woodlands.

Snap! The trap, having been thrown up by a log that he had sent spinning in his hurry, closed shut on his ankle, but on his calf, sending the teeth clean through leather and into the flesh beneath. Muffling his sound of pain, he hurridly prised the jaws apart before making a run for it, this time hindered and splattering blood in his wake. He did not stop until he was certain that his pursuer had stopped, and when he finally came to a halt, he did so with no amount of grace. Slumping at the base of a tree, he assessed the damage. Nothing permanent, but it would hinder him for quite a time. Panting and bringing his breathing under control, and after making a hasty, crude bandage, he finally leant back and closed his eyes. He would move on the morning, he thought. The longer he stayed, the more risk there was of being found again.

It was brisk, and cool, in the forest area that day. As it was many days before, and would be for many days to come. The leaves shifted and were red and orange, signaling the change and shift in season: from the burning embers of summer to the chilling fragments of fall, it was a fine day to be working. And to Cleo, it truly was perfect. If you focused on the crisp blue skies just long enough, trails of white smoke could be seen streaking the skies.

However, Cleo was traveling opposite of where the smoke originated. Her wooden bow resting comfortably in her hand, and a pack of arrows bouncing restlessly on her back. Her hood was drawn up over her face as she kept her eyes to the ground. Soon enough, she could smell something. It was awful, and metallic, recognizing it right away, she drew an arrow, placing it along the bow as she began to carefully scan the woods for any sign of trouble or danger. She narrowed her eyes as a trail caught her eyes. She kneeled down and touched the sticky red trail with her finger tips. She stood and aimed her arrow around her self.

She began following the trail, praying, that this wouldn't leave her to have a trail of her own.

Gwyr was still sleeping, although that hardly meant that he was entirely deaf to his surroundings. A line of dried leaves had been laid a handful of paces away from where he was resting beneath the orbansa's thick woollen cover, to alert him of any approaching be it a wild animal or one of a more humanoid nature. The bleeding had stopped at least at some point during the night, clotting naturally, so he had little need to worry about never waking up. A heated stone warmed in a fire crudely made that had long since burnt out was tucked against his side, something that had been a source of warm through the night. Certainly while he was not in one of the shelters that he usually constructed, it did suggest that he was not unknowing of woodlore.