Theinryd lay in his room at the Matravers farmstead, his left arm outstretched to be inspected by the local apothecary and friend to the family, Stanley Bloxwitch. “Nasty business” he said, poking the afflicted arm with a wooden probe, causing great discomfort to Theinryd who flinched in protest. “Very nasty business.” Bloxwitch stood from his stool and moved towards a wooden box upon the bedside table. From it, he opened a small draw and produced a round container. “Would you like the good news or the bad news?”
“Which of these will cease the poking and prodding of my arm?” asked Theinryd.
“Ah, yes. That’s the spirit! I’m glad to see your sense of humour remains untarnished.” Bloxwitch sat back down upon his stool and offered a half-smile before speaking. “The good news is that the burns you sustained will not hinder your arms movement indefinitely.” Theinryd opened his mouth to speak but was promptly silenced. “That being said, you shall carry these scars for the rest of your life.”
“Will I still be able to play my instruments, work the farm?” asked Theinryd, panic rising within him.
“You will need time to mend” said Bloxwitch, “therefore I would advise against both such activities for quite some time. This salve when applied will soothe the pain and allow you to exercise the affliction. However, the burn does cover part of your hand, which may cause… difficulties.”
Theinryd reached out and took the salve, removing the lid. “It smells like cat urine.”
“Yes, well. Unless you wish to spend the next few months in agonising pain, I would recommend you grow accustom to the scent" said Bloxwitch, offering a grin before adding “I was fresh out of lavender oil.”
“Indeed? I suppose I should expect worse from a mediocre herb-mixer such as yourself.” Theinryd said, slowly moving to the edge of the bed.
“High praise from the crippled musician” said Bloxwitch, preparing a roll of bandages.
Once the arm was salved and dressed, Theinryd emerged from his room and descended to the main foyer. The smell of fried bacon and eggs filled the air, a large breakfast being prepared not only for the Matravers family, but their new guests. Old Corfe and his family sat around the table, wrapped in blankets. Shock was still about them, which is why Theinryd’s mother Delphine was doing everything in her power to lift their spirits.
“More tea?” she asked, pouring it into Old Corfe's cup before he could reply. “Sugar? Honey? It will help, I promise you.” Old Corfe shook his head, his eyes fixed upon the fireplace in the corner of the room. Theinryd’s sister Evelyn took to comforting Corfe’s niece who mirrored her uncles unresponsiveness.
“Theinryd!” said Evelyn, jumping from the bench and running to her brother. She embraced him, taking no care or consideration towards his wounded arm. “Oh! I’m sorry, I-”
“It’s fine, really” said Theinryd, smiling down at his younger sister and placing his free hand upon her shoulder. “How are they?” he asked in a hushed tone. Evelyn leaned in to answer.
“Absent, for want of a better word. They’re here, but they’re not here, if you take my meaning. They have barely said a word since father left for Bree.” Theinryd frowned, turning to his mother who wandered over towards them with the tea pot still in hand.
“When will father return?” asked Theinryd.
“Any time now, I should imagine. He left at the crack of dawn seeking the watch for aid. He was full of fire-” Delphine closed her eyes, correcting her poor choice of words, “full of rage, he was; that they did not come to our aid.” Old Corfe grunted, wrapping the blanket tightly about him.
Some few hours later, once everyone present had eaten and drank their fill, Langdon’s wagon arrived. He marched into the foyer and slammed his palm against the nearest wooden pillar. “They will not come” he said through gritted teeth. “They said that threats alone do not warrant their attention. Threats, I ask you? How many burned farms will it take for them to see that brigands run rampant through the Bree-Lands?”
“That’s absurd!” said Theinryd. “Will they not be content until every farmstead from here to the Shire are naught but blackened husks? Loitering grounds for brigands and ruffians?”
Langdon shook his head, moving towards the hearth and resting against its mantle. “I am sorry, Corfe” said Langdon. “You may remain here as guests for as long as you need. I don’t know what else we can do…”
“There is only one thing we can do!” said Theinryd. “We have three days before the brigands come knocking on our door. This farmstead like that of Corfe has stood for generations! We cannot simply wait until we too are driven from our home, or worse!”
“And what would you suggest?” asked Langdon.
“We must take matters into our own hands” said Theinryd.
