Why is the horse blue

"Garlik!"

A shout carries through the dense, midsummer woods, the golden glow of evening peppering through the canopy and splashing the untrodden grass below.

"Garlik, you little shit-- Come here!"

Another shout, its source roughly pushing itself out of a particularly thick bush.

"Gar--fuck!"

A heavy thump, as its foot catches on a particularly prominent root, tumbling to the ground in a clatter of spear and chainmail. The owner of said foot remains on the ground, a low, droning sigh escaping it as it accepts its temporary, if embarrassing fate.

From the other side of the bush, back the way it came, another voice, deeper and more commanding, calls out.

"You find that damn dog yet?" It questions bluntly.

The sigh gets heavier.

No, Anondus hadn't found the damn dog yet.

Garlik, one of the Hunting dogs owned by his Lord, had picked a scent, gotten loose of its lead, and beelined it out of the Warcamp and off the path, deeper into the woods - barking all the while. Anondus, simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, was the closest on sentry duty Man-At-Arms near that edge of the camp. Orders overidden, he was sent to plunge into the woods and commanded to go after it. Right as his shift was about to rotate, too. Bastard, find your own dog.

You'd think such a noisy creature would be easy to follow, but distant barking told Anondus that Garlik had no intention of stopping just yet, whatever had its attention had it firmly. Probably a deer. Fox? Who cared.

"Fucks sake." Anondus mutters, pausing to lean against a nearby tree, rummaging out his waterskin to whet his parched lips. The dogs taunting barks still touched his ears, ever getting farther away.

He uses it as a moment to take stock that he hadn't lost anything--not that he tripped a few more times or anything, trudging through all this underbrush. Forbid the thought.

Annoying but appreciated chainmail? Of course, Check.
Gambeson underneath it? Kept him warm, kept him happy. Check.
Spear? Thing gave him two splinters since he got it a week ago from the Stockmaster. Anondus has since wrapped it in some old leather he nicked from the Smithy. Check.
Wooden roundshield? Crudely painted the same red as his tabard, currently dangling off his back. Check.
Crimson tabard depicting a mockery of a Boar, imagery of his Lord? Definitely used, if the singular spear-tip sized hole and faded (Poorly Washed) blood stain was anything to go by. Check.
Boots that don't have a hole in them? Cost him a few more coins than he wanted, but Check.
Kettlehelm? He'd used this thing as a bowl more times then he could ever be forced to admit. Check.
Fathers old sword?
...
Yeah, still there, strapped to his hip. His free hand fondly rubs its thumb over the pommel.

Plugging his waterskin again, Anondus groans, pushing off his momentary respite as he trudges deeper. At least they'd left him to the task, so they weren't breathing down his neck the whole time.

Yeah, he was lost. And tired. And sore.

The barking had stopped probably an hour ago, and the light started going soon after. Following where it had been to the best of his ability... which wasn't much, if at all, the damn dog was still gone. Anondus was the son of a Farmer, not a Hunter, and basic tracking wasn't even considered. Hell, the only reason that he even looked down being those foot-snatching roots.

No dog, not sure which way to go... even if he wanted to go back--which he did-- he didn't have the dog, and he had no idea where the Camp was. His shoulders slump as a huff escapes the tired Anondus, legs aching. He'd been roughing these woods for hours, leaves and broken twigs sticking out of his mail in all matter of ways.

Yeah, fuck the dog. He was done.

Anondus, having been using his spear as a walking stick, finally lowers himself onto a convenient log, splaying out his legs as he lets out a long sigh, deflating. Distant grasshoppers chirp, the forest around him getting a lot darker by the minute, the orange glow gone and replaced by the dark, blue-tinted starry sky above. The moon would probably rear above the canopy soon, too. He catches himself staring upwards for a little too long, before grunting and reaching back to rub the back of his neck. His eyelids grew heavy, the woods peaceful.

"I'll just... take a short rest." He convinces himself, stifling a yawn.
Just a quick sit, then he'd get up and probably... climb a tree, steal a nap in its branches. Yeah, that was a good plan. He'd do... that. Right as he got up.

Or he would have, if he didn't start snoring, head lolled to the side, leaning against his spear.