Awoken from an uneasy sleep, Jonn blinked an eye open to look blearily around the room. Light from the flames danced upon the far wall. Old, wooden timbers held up the second story above his head. A couple of small rooms led off from the common room where he lied. He idly stroked his fingers through the course fur of the bear-skin rug upon which he slept.
This small farmhouse had served its family for generations, as evidenced by the long-faded carvings on the outer walls' support pillars. A discarded cloak laid here, dirty boots there. Jonn could just make out a small toy horse, crudely made from wood and straw, on its side in the corner, now covered in dust. Though well-maintained, the home clearly wasn't as tidy as it could have been. The farmer revealed over a meager dinner last night that his wife had died to sickness some years ago.
Just yesterday Jonn had met that farmer. After defending him from a handful of marauding orcs—likely separated from one of the many war bands roaming the land—the farmer offered him a place to spend the night, though he admitted he wouldn't have much time to entertain him; his son was coming home that night. And a joyful reunion it was! By the amount of hearty hugs and vigorous shoulder-pounding exchanged between the two, it was clear they hadn't seen each other in some time. The young man had just finished training with the local Reeve's riders, and was here visiting home one last time before going on assignment permanently.
As it was already late in the day, the three men got to work putting away the son's few travel-bags and stabling the horses. The farmer's two work horses shared a stall farthest in, where they curiously propped their snouts up on the door to examine the newcomer. In strode a true monster of a steed, a stallion with a charcoal-black coat and gray mane and tail. It was the son's new “war mount,” and clearly his pride and joy. He insisted on handling it himself, which was just fine with Jonn. Jonn left his own mount, a cream-colored Dunlending mare—whose heritage he discreetly kept to himself—with its reins hanging loosely from a post, and still saddled.
That was last night, as Jonn vaguely began to recall. Light thuds and scraping noises coming from upstairs—from the son's room, he guessed—clarified what had awoken him in the first place. Or was it the horses making more noise than usual, their whinnies and snorts coming through the open window? Jonn let out a low groan and opened his other eye, wondering if he'd be able to get back to sleep again. Then, as his eyes began to focus, he blinked at the far wall. Something seemed odd about how the light from the flames danced on its surface. He switched his gaze to the fire pit. Though the farmer stoked the fire before heading to bed, by now it had died down to mere embers.
Realization finally crept into Jonn's sleep-muddled mind, just as he turned his head toward the sound of the farmer's son scrambling down the stairs. Jonn threw off his cloak he had used as a cover and stepped over to the window, tripping over the gear he had on the floor in the process. As he suspected, the flames he saw shining on the wall emanated from the open window, through which he could now see the source; the thatch roof of the stable was ablaze. The farmhouse door to his left banged open, and the dark silhouette of the farmer's son could be seen sprinting towards the stable doors.
Finally convinced that all of this was more than just a bad dream, Jonn's mind began to race. In the near-dark he padded himself down, confirming he was wearing only his smallclothes. In a scattered pile next to his bare feet he could see the dull glint of his armor and gear. He knew he wouldn't last long if he tried to run into the growing blaze without any protection, but it would take too long to fully equip himself, and the added bulk would only slow him down. Every second counted.
Hastily, Jonn shoved his feet into his boots. Then he felt around for his gloves, cringing at every moment lost and mentally weighing the benefit of each armament versus its cost in time and mobility. He finished sliding on his second glove while he bolted towards the door, only to groan in aggravation as he spun on his heel, changing his mind at the last second to grab his helm. It slid into place as he dashed through the open farmhouse doorway.
During the moments it took him to get partially dressed, the stable's roof was now entirely engulfed, and the flames had begun to creep down the far side. Jonn squinted at the harsh light, his heart racing. Memories of his dad telling stories of his time on the fire brigade, mixed with memories of his own of burning villages and homes, flashed through his mind as he sprinted onward. Out of the corner of his vision a shape caught his eye, and he veered right to reach an axe left sticking out of a stump. The second it took to yank it free felt like ten, but once he had the tool he bolted straight at the stable doors. He had to raise his free hand up to block the heat radiating down from above, but once he burst past the open doors, he skidded to a stop and his blood ran cold.
Immediately in front of him with his back turned was the farmer's son, standing stiff as a board. At the moment Jonn entered, the man fell backward, his head landing almost between the Breelander's feet, his eyes agape. Above him crouched a sneering orc, wielding a sword stained with fresh blood in one hand, and a lit torch still in the other. Jonn's astonishment lasted but a moment, though, now that his most immediate threat was a familiar one. Countless vile creatures such as these had confronted him before, and he had always managed to walk—or at least limp or crawl—away. Unfailingly, though, the protector could rely on his sturdy shield and full armaments to weather all but the most brutal of assaults. Yet here he stood, covered with nothing but his travel-worn skivvies and a smattering of gear on his outer extremities. To anyone else, and under any other circumstance, he would surely appear to be comical. But to this orc, under these circumstances, Jonn knew exactly what he appeared to be: an easy target.
