Bree

Summer. Back home we would be breaking sweat by pulling the oars; our galleys scudding through the shallow waters, as we’d reach the shores of Rhûn. Those were the times, glorious plunder and the thrill of a good skirmish. Gods know I miss that. But I am stuck here, in this tedious town, where you won’t even taste the difference between a horse’s waste and a gulp of mead.

The Midgewater was quiet but for the  buzz of flies and the familiar "neek breek" croaking on insects. The sun dropped lower, the glow turning the brackish water crimson as Corrben stood on the edge of the ruin. He had spilled as much blood to soak the lands of his birth, the blood of southrons who seemed determined to destroy and steal all the hard wrought work his people had done. Raiders and thieves, rapists, murderers and con artists were all among the flow of folk from the south.

The squint eyed southerner was bound and forced onto his knees in the stone floor of the ruins in Midgewater. Corrben stood just to the side of him, his hands streaked with blood, staining the leather bindings wrapped around his knuckles. He noticed the unusually dark color, nearly burgundy rather than crimson as it oozed from the broken nose of the prisoner. Splattered on the pale stone, it looked nearly black.

Gwennol listened as Pren explained how the people he had met on his first journey to the north had accompanied him south, only betray him and leave him for dead. He spoke of dark figures firing arrows, swift and strong they were but he did not see their faces. All he knew was that he had lived and lusted for revenge against the faithless man who he believed was behind it all. It was a fight with this man that left him in such a state and once again, they had tried  to kill him. Tying him and leaving him to drown.

Corrben and the other scouts crept up on the camp site. The southerners were sitting on crates, drinking stolen ale and smoking stolen pipeweed. There had been a raid on a Staddle farm and likely this was some of the booty. He crouched, his spear gripped in his hand, feeling a trickle of sweat down the back of his neck. There were three men, including one of those squinty eyed ugly bastards who were notoriously cruel and good fighters. The other was a woman, though it was hard to tell if she was young because her face was lined and dirty, hard from poverty and war. 

The village on the hill was her destination, Gwennol was certain of it and yet she was confused as to why. The symbol of the boar was everywhere, on banners and carved from stone and spouting water. In the fields surrounding the town, there were signs of boars in the field. Her heavy drab robes dragged against the cobblestones and she saw the stares and gawking mouths as she passed by the merchants at their stalls. The common tongue was spoken here and she could understand more than what she could speak back. Her craban cawed and flapped his wings, setting on her shoulder.

"How long do you think it'll take them  brigands to find our hideout and kill us all?" Brittleleaf pondered as he scraped the whetstone along the blade, "I've got a whole gold coin that says three days, what about you?"

Oakdale hunched his shoulders, "How are you going to collect on that debt? I say two more days tops." 

Corrben flexed his hand, that was one thing he did not miss when he was in the field with Grimbriar, the bloody paperwork. He was filling out an arrest form for yet another petty thief, this time a lad of about thirteen who had stolen boots that were being repaired at the cobbler. How desperate did one have to be to steal broken boots? The nib of the quill scratched against the parchment, the boy only offered a first name and likely did not have a surname. He blew on the ink to let it dry, handing the sheet to Dawn Appledore to file.

Lithe ~