With his sergeant in the training yards, there wasn't very much for Digby to do but sit at his watch station on the garrison wall and stare across barbarian lands. Their horses, he had to admit, were impressive beasts. But taking one... well, he knew from experience: the last major skirmish had been the result of a horse-raid by a few of his men. He'd have punished them, but the loss of friends was its own punishment, as he well knew.

He didn't technically have to keep watch, but he'd assigned himself sentry duty today. He trained in the mornings these days. Getting up early seemed easier and easier as he got older. It was the staying up later bit he couldn't quite achieve any longer. But he wasn't so old. Thirty-eight, that was the prime of life, even if his scars pressed a map of pain onto his flesh when it rained.

The barbarian tents were nowhere to be seen. In a way, that bothered him more than when he could see their encampment. Usually they wandered around taking care of horses, hunting, smoking that vile weed he'd had to confiscate from some of his Privates the other day; but for a week now, nothing. Maybe it was some sort of celebration among them? But the horses--the horses were still there. Which meant they had purposefully gathered the tents out of view of the garrison. But why?

"What are you up to," he murmured to himself, leaning against the battlement and squinting at the horizon.

Raynor had trouble falling asleep, as of late. His mind kept replaying the final blow his brother took at his hands. Even in the months that followed the fatal fight, he did not dwell over his sins. Full of blind hatred and self loathing, he simply drunk himself into a stupor and slept like a rock. After he ran into the priest and gave up the bottle, however, what he had done started to haunt him more and more. At first, it wasn't so bad. He seemed to have a purpose, to simply be a better man, but that purpose faded with time. Now, he did not think of his mistakes that often during the day, but as night fell, shadows seemed to follow him.

It didn't help that the border seemed eerily quiet. Though he was not scared to fight, he would prefer not having to face death. As much as he disliked himself, he did like living. That is why he found himself at the same place as Digby and at the same time. Holding back at first, debating if he should leave, Raynor heard the man speak. At first, he wondered if the lieutenant was talking to him, but soon found that the man seemed unaware of his presence and his voice seemed to be more musing than conversational.

"They have been quiet, haven't they. Makes one want to glance over his shoulder to see if those devils are about to drive a blade into your back." Raynor limped from the shadows where he lingered, but did not come to stand next to Digby. He hung back a bit, out of respect for the man's rank. "You suspect an attack, sir?"

The Lieutenant wasn't really surprised to see one of his newer soldiers on the balcony. Private Gairden had an intensity he thought he recognized, as he had a corresponding sort of sense himself. It wasn't so much that he sensed a kindred soul--but really, who joined a bloody garrison in the middle of nowhere if they weren't running from some demons? He'd met men leaving behind murders, leaving behind charges of sodomy (he was none too careful with monitoring the barracks, neither, for on this point his judgment was leave well enough alone), leaving behind charges of theft and rape. Some of his soldiers were no better than the barbarians they fought when they first came in, but he tried to make proper soldiers of 'em all, worthy of the Royal Army.

Usually, he succeeded. The ones he failed with, well, they had a habit of either dying for want of what his sergeant liked to call 'listenin' skills' or deserting at first opportunity. He'd seen it in the Barbarian Wars and he'd seen it ever since. The question, of course, was into what category Gairden would fall.

"I more than suspect an attack, Private," he murmured, his eyes still on the darkening horizon. The sun was setting later and later these days, as summer came on.. and with it, always, more barbarian restlessness. "I make a habit of expecting one every day, and you should do the same.... it grinds on the nerves a bit but keeps you nice and sharp. But you tell me. A burst of activity last week, followed by a move of their camp, and now--nothing. Doesn't signal attack, exactly, there's the rub." He cast a glance at the other, slightly younger man. "What do you think?"

He wouldn't have gotten to where he was today if he didn't value every opinion, after all; and though there were ways of getting the measure of a man other than seeing how he spoke and acted (astrology, perhaps?), Digby tended to rely on the tried and true.