In the eyes of the law, would it be considered murder if one killed a traitor of the state? Askeladden had lost the energy to run, his feet bloodied and the bandages stuck to his feet. The scabs would break open again and he'd have to clean the wounds again every few miles, but the downtime between the running and the occasional maintenance gave the runaway slave time to think. Askeladden has always hated thinking. It mostly led to him being depressed about his position. A slave, a punching bag, and a tool to line his master's pocket. Now wasn't that much better. Homeless, penniless, and a murderer. His master wasn't the first person he had killed and, with what was to come, he wasn't expecting his master to be the last. Though it was still [i]different[/i]. His master wasn't forcing him to defend himself, he was sleeping and Askeladden beat him over the head until his skull caved in. It was a lifetime of retribution in the making, but the thought of it still made his stomach feel as though it was turning itself over.

He shook his head, doing his best to will the thoughts away for a moment if he could. He continued to walk and occasionally run, stopping only once his breath went ragged and his clothes stuck to his skin. When he reached city with which the caravan was stationed outside of, Askeladden's pace finally slowed down to a staggered walk. He had been walking, running, and destroying his feet for the better part of three days, of which he managed no more than a few winks of sleep. The streets were near empty, leaving him nearly as alone as he had been this entire journey. At least on the road there were the occasional bands of soldiers passing by. Here, the city was just dead. At this point, he was fully lost. The soldier that mentioned the caravans only mentioned the city. Beyond that it was entirely up to him to find the caravan, so he'd have to rely on finding someone that fit the criteria. 

"[color=87CEFA]Between 10 and 18, right?[/color]" Askeladden muttered to himself, looking around for someone that looked young. Or short. Short would have done as well. A head of red hair caught his eyes, the owner of the hair a young girl with a bow that looked particularly valuable. He decided to follow her with some distance. Didn't want to scare her off, especially if she was heading to the caravans.

He stood a good distance away from the caravan when the redhead reached it, unsure of what to do. [color=87CEFA]I don't need to show the guards anything do I?[/color] Askeladden grimaced, reaching for his cloak's hood and drawing it over his head. He was overly aware of how he looked like a vagrant and hardly fit in with the group of children. Having a full head of white hair certainly didn't help him blend in. The eye-patch did him no favors in the department either.

The runaway slave turned his head to the ground and marched forward, doing his best to conceal the staggered steps, gritting his teeth as he tried his best to hide any sounds of pain. He made his way past the redhead and another figure, too scrawny for a man, using the figure's horse to steady himself. The scent of the horse lingered on his palm when he went to readjust his eye-patch. The horse smelled like a horse, but unlike most people's mounts it smelled almost clean. [color=87CEFA]Feh, guess there's a noble among us.[/color] Askeladden climbed into the first wagon he reached, one devoid of people, filled to the brim with supplies and did his best to wiggle in where there was any space before resting his head on his knees. [color=87CEFA]Please, no one ask any questions.[/color]