Dismas takes another drag on his cigarette, watching as its end lights up a bright red, like cherries in summer. A spark of colour, the faint memory of warmth and the acrid, bitter taste of cheap tobacco, those are the comforts for one who spends his life roving the highway.
Somebody had once told him smoking helped with hunger. He ain't sure that's true, but at least it gives him something to do other than to watch the pale autumn sun fail at burning away the creeping mists and to contemplate the changing of seasons.
These days, the only gold they get to see is that of dying leaves, and those won't fill a stomach. Supplies are low, and the spirits in the camp even more so. When the first snow begins to fall, men and wolves alike band together, and just like beasts they will be at each other's throats if their situation doesn't improve soon.
Dismas has no intention of being around when that happens.
There's a few of the northern port cities where his face isn't well known. He's always kept his nose clean in Velstaad and it's been a while since he's been in Fraehaven. If he manages to hide the flintlock he might make it past the gates – he's done it before.
But back then he had the coin for food and lodgings, and could pay the guards for a bout of temporary oversight. Now all he has to rub together are his aching, stiff hands. His gloves are worn threadbare, ring and forefingers peeking through small holes. The patch of exposed skin is numb; he is numb.
The crunching of dry grass betrays whoever makes his way over to him. The other man sits down on the log beside Dismas, close enough to offer companionship, but Dismas is more aware of the careful distance between them than of their proximity.
"Vvulf wants us to move west at first light."
Dismas recognizes the voice as Bertran's. "Yeah?" he asks with disinterest, without looking at the speaker.
"Folet's seen a patrol less than two miles from here," the other bandit confirms. "Road ain't safe anymore."
"Woods ain't safe," Dismas counters.
"Still better than the cities though," Bertran insists.
Dismas disagrees, but there's no point in starting an argument. Bertran is right that robbery in a city is always more dangerous than out here. Too many eyes, and no place to escape if things go pear-shaped. And cheating at cards and dice only gets you so far before the muscle tosses your sorry arse to the curb with a warning to not show up again. And that's gettin' away easy.
"Hey."
Dismas turns his head to glance at the man beside him. He is surprised when he is offered a piece of sausage. It's not often you meet someone willing to share what little they've got, and it's even rarer amongst their ilk. He's got some bread that is stale and hard enough to break a tooth on, but it's a fair trade and they're both better for it.
"Everyone says it's gonna snow soon," Bertran says halfway into their meagre meal. "Herbard claims he can smell it on the air, Digby say he can feel it in his bones, and even Perroy's got a magic cock all of a sudden that can foretell the weather. He whips it out, and if it freezes, that means it's cold."
Dismas snorts in answer and Bertran breaks out in laughter which earns the two of them filthy glances from all directions. Bertran's chuckles quickly grow quieter, then turn to dry, rattling coughs.
"Think it's gonna kill me?" the other bandit asks with an easy grin when the fit subsides.
Dismas, who has heard his share of thick lung, shrugs. "If it gets worse."
"'S been like this since spring," Bertran says, and shakes his head. "It's the cold."
"Should head South then," Dismas comments. "It's warmer there."
"Aye, and tangle with the Inquisition?" Bertran scoffs. "Course I'd be plenty warm when they chain me to the stake."
Dismas knows a better way to stave off the chill than to be burned alive, but he doesn't speak up. It's a bad idea to get involved with anyone you're working with – not to mention that if you bent over for one guy, you might find the whole camp expecting you extend the same service to everyone.
Having finished eating, he pulls up his scarf and tucks his hands under his armpits. The inside of the cloth quickly grows damp from his breath but it does a fairly good job of keeping the wind from chapping his lips any worse.
"Hey," someone calls over, entirely unlike Bertran did before. "Once you two layabouts are done being useless, there's work to do!"
Bertran groans and flips the man off, but despite the gesture he's rising to his feet. "How comes he gets to order us around?"
Dismas answers with a grunt, partly because there's no point in speaking through he scarf, but mostly because he doesn't care.
"Maybe he's the Boss' mattress." Bertran laughs, nudges Dismas' side with his elbow – lightly, because anything else would earn him a punch in the face. "Makes you wonder, eh?" Thankfully, he leaves after that.
Dismas gets up too. His bag is already packed, and he has no intention of carrying anyone else's. Vvulf's plan is far from agreeing with him. They need to head out, not further inland. Dismas' nerves are rubbed as raw as his feet, yet that does not stop him from pacing the perimeter of the camp.
One good heist is all he needs. Just one more, and he won't be making it in a forest out in the middle of nowhere. He looks towards the road and when no one else is watching, grabs his bag and starts walking. Somewhere, far away from here, fortune and infamy beckon.