The Bree-land Free RP

[Tharmáras]

"Bree was the chief village of the Bree-land, a small inhabited region, like an island in the
empty lands round about. Besides Bree itself, there was Staddle on the other side of the hill,
Combe in a deep valley a little further eastward, and Archet on the edge of the Chetwood.
Lying round Bree-hill and the villages was a small country of fields and tamed woodland only a few miles broad.

"The Men of Bree were cheerful and independent: they belonged to nobody but themselves;
but they were more friendly and familiar with Hobbits, Dwarves, and Elves, and other inhabitants
of the world about them than was (or is) usual with Big People. According to their own tales
they were original inhabitants and were the descendants of the first Men
that ever wandered into the West of the middle-world."

- Narrator, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Fellowship of the Ring - At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

Bree-town: Bree is the largest of the four villages of the Bree-land and mainly home to Men but there are Hobbits, the Little Folk, who they live in perpetual harmony with; the halflings dwell on the higher slopes of the Hill above the some hundred stone houses of the Big Folk. Bree is found at the junction of the Great East Road and the Greenway and so is a popular stopping place for travelers. Ruffians and burglars from the South have wormed their way inside.

Staddle: Staddle is the town on the other side of the gentle slopes of the Hill and is home to a greater Hobbit population. This is a farming community where halflings till the earth outside their Hobbit-holes, producing crops and pipeweed although a different sort than that grown in the Shire.[/center]

Combe: Combe is an agricultural community people by Men and Hobbits working the arable land. It's located in a deep valley nearby the Bree hill to the east between Archet to the north and Staddle to the south. Combe sits on the border of Chetwood, the great forest that lay between Bree-land and the Midgewater Marshes. Farmers, ranchers, vintners, and brewers can be found here. Weary vagabonds can relax at the Comb and Wattle Inn, one of the places Bilbo rested in during his adventure, owned by Lisbeth Honeymeade (Aigronding). There are a few castles of the ancient Cardolan monarchy here either in ruins or wholly intact

Archet: Archet is the most northerly part of Bree-land and lays nestled amidst the eaves of Chetwood.
Here are the homes of the hunters and the woodcutters and the foresters who protect the Chetwood.

Chetwood: The last remnant of the ancient woodland of Eriador which Sauron's minions didn't burn. It takes three days to journey through this paradise of bright leaves and blissful serenity. Foresters can often be seen caring for both the wildlife and the growth of plants; these woodwards are responsible for stopping poachers and searching for outlaws hiding in the woods escaping pursuit from their crimes in the Bree-land. There are some towers here, ruined or unbroken, which belonged to nobles of the Cardolan royalty in bygone days

.


Rules:
1.)This is a Free RP, a thread where you write your own stories
within the Bree-land. The year is TA 3014 but "Flashback RP'ing", writing in the past, is permissable.
You may write alone and mark your post(s) as private or you may team up with a member. The Rivendell Activities OOC can be used for out of character posts and plotting viewtopic.php?f=10&t=34 .
2.) Please review the Roleplaying Code of Conduct before posting https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/rol ... of-conduct . No spamming or godmoding please. To preserve the sanctity of the Tolkienesque atmosphere, no sexual allusions/content/jokes are allowed. If I see or am notified you have crossed lines or incur OOC complaints, you will be asked to edit your post. Thanks for understanding.

[Quill]

Arden Redbrush
Sheepshade Farm, Combe

Outside her window, a gentle snow was falling. Arden muttered under her breath at the sight of it as she slid out of bed. Outside of her covers, the air was laced with cold, and she shivered but fought the desire to crawl back in. Instead, she crept over to the window and pressed her nose against the glass. When Thorley woke up, he’d be ecstatic to see the snow. It had been a fairly warm winter and none had fallen yet. Over the past few days, winds from the north had brought a chill, and now they were bringing these flakes. She was pleased to see that it didn’t seem to be sticking—yet. That meant she had time to take the sheep out to pasture to get some grazing done. If the snow did settle in she’d have to take them back to the lean-to, where they could subsist on hay until the storm had passed. She didn’t like to keep them cooped up, though. She peeled her nose away from the window and hastened to get dressed. She made sure to put on enough layers to keep her warm for a few hours out in the fields. She put on long underwear, thick woolen trousers, a woolen blouse, a fleece-lined vest, and a large, knee-length woolen coat that had leather panels on the outside. Then she tugged on her old, mud-encrusted boots and added a lush green scarf that her ma used to wear. Last but not least was a cream-colored hat that almost covered up her eyes and kept her ears nice and toasty.

She was careful not to make any of the floorboards creak as she sneaked down the hall past her father’s bedroom, and then past her brother Thorley’s. Usually she didn’t get up too much earlier than her father Langdon, as he had his own duties around the farm to take care of, mainly to do with the horses. But she was up a bit earlier than usual, to get a head start on grazing, and wanted to let him get as much sleep as he possibly could. He was always overworked, since he had to take care of her and Thorley without help from anyone else. Their ma died eight years ago, right after giving birth to Arden’s little brother. She didn’t blame him for her death, and was mostly just sad that he never got to know her. Her absence made things harder on her father, but now that Arden was older and no longer in school, she had some independence to help where she could. Still, the days ran him ragged, and the more sleep he could catch, the better.

The steps whined a little under her boots but she managed to make it downstairs without making too much of a racket. Arden heard the jingle of the collar-bell on her dog Twiglet stirring from his bed. The border collie padded up sleepily, wagging his tail nonetheless. She scratched him behind his ears and whispered good morning. It was even colder down here, and she poked at the embers in the hearth, watching sparks putter in the coals. They made a little hissing sound in the flat silence of the house. It was not always this quiet. Once Thorley awoke he would fill it with sound, his boyish laughter and running footsteps. But she would be gone when he arose, and he would be at school when she returned, so she would just have to imagine his little chaos. Arden went to the larder and rummaged around for some foodstuffs to take out with her. She wouldn’t waste time on eating breakfast here, but could eat once the sheep were out and feasting as well. She wrapped up a few pieces of bread with beans cooked into the dough, grabbed a large yellow apple, and a few strips of jerky. That would tide her over until later. She tucked them away into her small leather knapsack and slung it over her shoulder. All the while Twiglet watched her expectantly, knowing exactly what this routine of hers meant.

Her staff leaned on the wall next to the back door, and she took it in her hands, feeling the familiar smooth touch of the wood against her skin. Over the years the staff had worn away under her palm, and there was now a perfect groove where she grasped it. It was made of cherry, though its reddish-brown color had faded under influence of all kinds of weather. The bottom was covered in dirt and grass and a bit of sheep’s wool. Those were, after all, the three ingredients that went into the making of a shepherdess, Arden thought with a sly smile. She tugged her hat farther down around her ears and opened the door. Twiglet snaked out in front of her, racing down the steps before she went out.

The pastures of Sheepshade Farm glided out before her, their gentle inverted curves shaped by the valley in which Combe lay. It was a modest farm, but she loved it more than she could say. There were two main pastures; the one nearest the house was for the horses, and contained their stable, painted a peeling blue and white. Beyond that lay the sheep corral, where she could see the sheep huddled together near their three-sided lean-to. They blended well with the snow, except for their black faces and feet. Twiglet was already running up and down the length of their fence. She felt a twinge of affection for them, and started down the stairs. She looped around the horse pasture, which was empty, its usual inhabitants still inside keeping warm. Twiglet met her by the small gate on the side. The sheep baaed when they heard her let herself into their corral; some of the younger ones came toddling over to greet her, then instantly got distracted and went away again. Arden laughed. She loved her sheep, but the creatures were never very smart. On instinct Twiglet went after them, rounding them back up into a neat little pile again.

Arden clucked to them, well, mostly to Twiglet, and he brought them over to the gate at the end of the pasture, which was large enough to fit about five sheep abreast at once. She unlatched the gate and pushed it open, allowing the dog to hustle the herd through before she closed it behind them. Humming to herself, she followed. Her job wasn’t very difficult, not with Twiglet around. She loved the collie dearly. She had given him that silly name when she was ten, but it suited him. He was intelligent enough to mind the herd, but had a touch of dopeyness that made him adorable. She whistled to him and he moved the sheep to the right.

Together they struck out into the countryside of Combe, where she had lived all her life. It was a beautiful valley south of Archet and not far from Bree-town itself, though it had none of the hubbub, of which she was glad. She loved her peaceful little life with her family and her sheep, and wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even in the snow, she loved it. She admitted that the weather was beautiful, as they made their way out into the best fields. It made it a little harder to see the sheep ahead of her, but as long as she kept near, as she always did, it wasn’t a problem. They bleated a little more than usual in complaint, but they still had all their wool, so she knew they were fine. She called to Twiglet to stop when they reached good grazing ground, and he herded the sheep to a stop. They were in a wide swath of field near a small hill. On the hill grew a stand of trees—good, solid trees that were green the whole year round. Arden made sure that the sheep were happy and already grazing before she trekked up the hill and made herself comfortable with her back against the trunk of a pine. She settled in between the roots to watch the sheep. Eventually Twiglet might come and lie next to her, but he was still too full of energy, and was running around the sheep to make sure they were still in line, even though they seemed to have no interest in anything but grass at the moment.

Arden reached into her pack and took out her food and a book she’d brought along. She’d been reading it for a long time. She was a bit of a slow reader, especially since she was usually distracted, having to keep an eye on the sheep and whatnot. The book was about the origin of the town of Combe as well as Archet in the north. It was an interesting read, if not very fast-paced. She unwrapped a slice of bean-bread and began to read, the boughs of the tree shielding the book from the snow.

[Tharmáras]

A Mole Story: The Tale of Astaro

- Private, Only for Now -

Author's Note:

This is the Third Part of Astaro's journey to Rhûn on the errand of Hatholdir
and to unexpectedly reunite with the love of his life, his king's daughter who is working with the Eastern Rebels.
The novella will take place over multiple threads in the Imladris Forum in epic fashion
because the Mole will have quite a few slight detours along the way. The first portion
is not written yet but will take place on Tol Noldarë, the Island of the Moles,
in the Ever On: The World Beyond thread. The second part was his introduction
in The Inn of the Prancing Pony thread. This segment's starts from the point my
post ended with Edward Sugarplum speaking of trouble in the Chetwood. I originally
intended to leave this passage there but decided moments ago that
it would clutter the activity with my own characters talking back and forth. A few locations mentioned
here are of my own creation but there are some I've taken from LOTRO and adapting for my own use
and to be referenced in other threads like Osdolen and The Hill Watch for the benefit of RPers.

What's this about disappearances?" Astaro asked, idly rolling a thumb along the glass of Linyamaril brandy. He was a Mole which meant he was not just a miner or smith but a warrior as well and one of the toughest Edward knew.

Edward sighed. "Twelve dozen loggers haven't returned to the lumber mill in Combe Valley nor their homes in the villages of the Bree-land," Edward explained. He was talkative as all bartenders are but he knew Astaro didn't mind. The Pony was a good place for news, whether it be local or tidings brought from afar. "I've had good friends among the shantyboys and lumberjills working in the great forest of Chetwood. Some of those I haven't seen in a month. Families are worrying that they've been killed by Orcs raiding Trestlebridge or captured by the Blackwolds. Sherriff Miles Brackenbrook has assured the public the Hill Watch will be investigating with the Rangers of the North."

"I'm sorry to hear of the late unplesantness." Astaro was quiet for a moment, sitting grimly. "There shouldn't be Orcs terrorizing Eriador this far west," he stated with a firm voice. "Not unless -"

"They are coming from then North," interjected the red-haired Dwarf in the black coat whom Edward had given an inky King Henry ale. He stroked his bushy beard thoughtfully. "Not from the East where the Mordagnirs maintain their sleepless watch."

"Are you suggesting these Orcs attacking Trestlebridge are from Carn Dûm?" Astaro wondered, lifting an eyebrow sharply. "Angmar was so utterly defeated that not a man nor an Orc of that realm remained west of the Mountains."

The Dwarf gazed at Astaro with his steely blue eyes as he downed his hoppy beverage and swept the foam off his ginger bread. "We shouldn't continue this conversation here, Sir Elf. Do you have plans tomorrow?"

"I leave for The Last Homely House in the morning once after I see a friend of mine in Archet," answered Astaro, "but I don't mind postponing my journey east a few hours, Master Dwarf."

"Call me Thalrak-"

"Ah!" Astaro exclaimed merrily, clasping the Dwarf's brawny forearm. "I've heard of you from a fellow Mole, Oron Raumor!"

"He's been the captain of Lin Giliath's guards for six months and eager to return home to his wife," Thalrek affirmed gaily. "The Moles of that mining camp are friends of the Dwarven wardens of Othrikar. You will see him tomorrow at Adamant if you wish to meet him and I with our Ranger contact, Helchon. Do you know the place?"

"The ruins of Virgilia's castle, yes," answered Astaro, nodding. The last queen of Cardolan ruled from the citadel on King Harry's Ridge which divided North Chetwood from South Chetwood in the royal days of Cardolan. The stony remains of the stronghold served as an outpost of the Rangers and Ann Snapdragon's children often played among the ivied halls with friends. "I'll be there."

[corlisswyn]

Arnora, Human
Bree town center

Arnora sat on the corner of a half-wall jutted out from a small house, hiding behind it a small garden. The garden was tiny enough to know the woman tending it needed every last crop she could harvest from it. In her youth, Arnora may not have cared enough to not steal from this woman, but she was now a formidable woman, thief, and valued member to her family.

Her target was a rich traveller who, while drinking to excess, flaunted his wealth in a very poorly played game of cards. Liberating him of just a portion of his wealth would be beneficial to Arnora and for those whom Arnora protected. Though Arnora now did not need the money to clothe and feed herself, she served the greater good by looking after those who needed a helping hand the most. She pulled out a small silver coin from her pocket, and flipped it behind her into the soil bed closest to the kitchen door. The woman would find it, and maybe she will be able to buy that flour for which she was saving.

She prided herself to be as soundless as an elf as she leapt down from the wall and landed softly. She could not hear the treading of her own steps as she followed the traveller down towards the marketplace.

Perfect, she thought. A large crowd, a moment to lift, and easy enough distraction to return a purse full of shiny coins proved profitable for Arnora, walking away with a tidy little sum. She spotted a young boy, maybe the age of ten. "Hey, you. Come here! I've got a task for you!" The demand was quiet and hushed, but confident and cool. She pulled out two shiny coins and flashed them before the boy's eyes. "You see that gentleman over there, with the brightly colored robe?" Arnora nodded her head to the left darted her eyes towards the rich traveller. The boy quickly shifted his eyes and back to her, nodding. "Make sure you tell him there's a special game tonight at the Rosemont House. Have him ask for Bearic."

The boy tried to snatch the coins out of Arnora's hands, but she was too quick for him. "What's the message?"
The boy sighed, "Special game tonight at Rosemont House. Ask for Bearic." This was not his first street mission obviously. Arnora looked him over. He was three meals shy of starving, but he was bright and cool. She was going to have to keep an eye on him.
"What's your name, boy?" The boy eyed her cautiously, seemingly unsure whether to trust Arnora. "Garth."

"Nice to meet you, Garth. Arnora." The boy laughed, but quickly stifled it. "Arnora? really? Have a twin sister named Gondora?" Garth beamed an innocent smile. Arnora was used to people making fun of her name. After all it took a real genius of a father to fail to come up with anything else.

"Get. Make sure he gets the message. There's an extra coin in it for you if he shows up tonight." She saw Garth's eyes open wide and a hopeful, hungry look overtook him as he snatched the two proffered coins. Hunger was a powerful motivator on the streets. Arnora made a wager with herself. If the rich traveller made it to Rosemont House tonight, she'd find Garth and give him a more permanent job.

[corlisswyn]

Mother Czarine Taiah
Rosemont House
Bree

The card tables were full tonight; word had gotten out of last night's surprise winner, taking the house for a tidy sum. She gave a coy smile as she looked over the open hall from a second floor balcony. The prospect of taking winnings from the house always brings in a crowd for the next few days. The income more than made up for the winnings given out, and her establishment was quickly earning a reputation of being fair and competitive for those who enjoyed a wager or a game of chance.

She spied from above for an additional half-hour. Four croupiers had been hired three months ago, and under the strict training of her head croupier brought in from Dale, Holstein, all four had seemingly picked up the trade nicely. All four played straight tables, they were not under orders to skew a game one way or another. They had not yet been trusted with deeper workings of a gambling house. They hadn't earned Mother Czarine's trust yet. But she paid them well, they kept their mouths shut, and they discreetly advertized the nightly games to patrons who could afford to lose a little.

Holstein was standing along the far wall, and he subtly looked up at Mother Czarine looking at him. He gave a gentle bow and nodded. It was all she needed to know before she could settle in to the back rooms for the night. Holstein just informed her he didn't foresee any problems for the night and he had the authority to handle customer complaints with discretion.

As Mother Czarine closed the door to the master suite, she took a look around. She missed her compound at Dale; She had brought only a few members of the family with her to Bree, and she was still mourning the loss of her underboss, Victor Alphonse. She needed a new right hand man; she needed several really. Dale would hold up for a while, but the vacuum of upper family leadership will eventually sour the situation there.

This was not her spatial master suite in Dale, but it had come together nicely, with rich wood beams and floors; soft woolen rugs, and several custom furniture pieces from a woodworker out of the Shire by the name of Fosco Bracegirdle. She sat in one of his custom leather upholstered chairs, sinking into the deep seat and high arms. Almost as if waiting for Czarine to sit, a sharp knock on the door interrupted the silence. "Enter, Myrtie."

Myrtle Gardner entered with a tray with a teapot and service for two. "M'am. I see the house is full tonight, and yet you retired early. I hope all is well?" The aging hobbit approached and set the service down on a table between Czarine's chair and an empty twin chair. Myrtie began to pour the hot water into Czarine's teacup as Czarine responded. "Leadership is about delegating responsibility to responsible people. Holstein has control of the floor for the night. But, come, take a seat Myrtie. I would like to talk to you about your future here with me. You must know I've come to treasure your service here."

Mother Czarine waived her hand to the empty chair and bade Myrtie to sit. Czarine stood and fixed Myrtie a steaming cup of tea and handed it to the sitting hobbit before taking a seat and taking up her cup to enjoy.

Myrtie was visibly nervous. Czarine had always been kind to the older hobbit, and Myrtle enjoyed a casual comradery with Czarine, but she had never been served tea or asked to sit as one of Czarine's "family" members. There were rumors of those who displeased Mother Czarine, and Myrtie took those to heart and acted with extreme caution and discretion while in Czarine's service.

"Relax, Myrtie. I know you have heard about my organization, and you've served me well anyways. I have a reputation that may not generally compatible with the general hobbit demeanor, especially out in the Shire. But you are shrewd; you calculate your responses and consider the consequences before making decisions or speaking out. I suspect you will keep a secret to your grave, if you accepted it. I see a lot of me in you. I need people close to me I can trust. Can I trust you?"

Myrtie sat there silent, staring back at Czarine. "You've done right by me so far, M'am. I'm grateful for the work, and your people show me the respect I've earned. Can you trust me? You can trust I will do what I think is right, and that is all I can promise you. I do know your reputation, but you've not asked me to do something I won't do, and as long as we stay that way, then M'am, I think we will be just fine."

Mother Czarine stared back at the hobbit. She was impressed; Myrtie stood her ground and was blunt and honest with her. She could work with that.

"Myrtie, you have my word, I will never ask you to intentionally do something you feel is against your conscience, but there are people in this family, me included, who have done, and will continue to do things you may find distasteful. I need you to know that if you stay with us, you will eventually find out more than you may want to know. I expect continued loyalty, and in return you will gain status within this household. If you want out, you just say the word. You have my guarantee of safety."

Myrtie pondered the statement for a moment. "M'am, what exactly are you asking of me?"

Czarine flashed a faint smile. "Myrtie, I will not be staying at Rosemont House permanently. Over the next few months I mean to establish a permanent family house, likely in Combe. I need someone to run the Combe compound. I think you are the right person for the job. If I'm going to succeed in Bree, I also need insight into the Hobbit community. You will also act as an emissary of the Taiah Family to the Bree and Buckland hobbit communities. I will ask for your counsel, and I will expect you to find and manage the domestic servants in any property the family has here in Bree. You are an upstanding citizen of the city, and I use that to my advantage; your presence and employment add to my credibility and to the credibility and legitimacy of my businesses."

Myrtle nodded in understanding. "And in return?"

Czarine knew she was already going to say yes to her proposal, but Czarine was known to be fair and generous with her employees, and as such, she needed a fair and generous offer. "You will be well compensated. You will have a private suite of rooms in the new compound, and all living expenses will be covered by the household. You will have authority of the household staff, both men and hobbitfolk. You will officially be a member of the Taiah Family, and as such accorded a protected status. You may ask Holstein about your counterpart at Lake Town, Toki. He has been in his position for several years and is well regarded among the family out there. All who come here will show you respect as a family member."

Myrtle sat there quietly for several moments, visibly churning the information she just received. "What concerns you, Myrtie?"

"You promise I will never have to do anything that goes against my principles?"

Czarine smiled to assure Myrtie. "I promise. But you must keep an open mind when it comes to the people in my employ and family. We don't all hold the same principles you do, and I live by my own set of rules and principles. I expect not to be judged or criticized, especially in front of others. If you have an issue or concern, you have my express permission to come to me privately with those concerns. I take your counsel and will take from it what I will. Can you live with that?"

The two ladies stared at each other and silence increased the tension. Czarine laid everything out on the table and she was now feeling a bit vulnerable.

"M'am. I don't have much family left. My children are grown and settled with their own families across Buckland and the Shire. As long as I can still see my grandchildren when they come this way and can take time to visit them from time to time, I think I mean to take you up on your offer. I don't know if I can live up to all you expect, but I will tell you if I don't think I can do it. I will also be honest with you, and I think you will appreciate that more than most. I've only got another 30 years in me, and finding a place to settle doesn't sound like a bad idea at all."

"Myrtie, I think you'll find the Taiah Family will welcome you with open arms. We will meet tomorrow in the daylight, and we will start drawing out our transition to the Combe compound. I will need you every step of the way as I still need to recruit my middle-management here in Bree. It's going to be a very busy autumn. Drink up, and then go get some rest. We will start early."

The two women sat in silence, each nursing their cup of tea and thinking about the new alliance they just formed. Just as silently, Myrtie collected the teacups and took the tea service with her. "Goodnight, M'am." "Good night, Myrtie," Czarine responded. Once again alone, she retired for the night.

@Aigronding Mordagnir (OOC: This is the start of the Taiah Family posts! I'm finally writing Aig-size posts!)

[Baphởmet]

What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

What time was it? Finn-adan, commonly known to Breelanders simply as Finn, knew what time it was. It was Adventure Time! It was always adventure time for Finn and his trusty canine pal, Jake! The question was, more often than not, what were they going to do on this adventure? Being a ranger in the northlands meant there was always something to do, even if the mission itself wasn’t very fun. Finn had been through a lot recently. He’d accidently become the king of a tribe of goblins who wanted him to lead them on a glorious holy war against the orcs of Gundabad. That had been a weird week. Then he and Jake accidently got too involved in an ancient board game called Guardians of Sunshine and ended up actually in the game! Well, in the game might be an exaggeration, but it was still a heck of a time! They’d decided it was time to find some civilization after that. Bree was the closest place. It had been a long time since Finn and Jake had been to Bree. Jake asked everyone there were the cheese was and they both laughed at the townsfolks confusion. They’d stayed at the Prancing Pony and along with Bob and Nob, pranked old Barliman Butterbur with the most devious prank they’d ever devised! They filled up a cloth sachet with butter and tricked him into sitting on it! The butter sprayed everywhere! It was well worth the old man’s bewildered face and stream of curses. They’d had to dodge a pan or two, but once they were in the common room it was all pints of ale and dramatic retellings. What kind of mischief could they get up to while they were here now? Would Bob and Nob still be there? Would they be down for some adventuring? Maybe they had the inside scoop on some ne'er-do-wells lurking about in the forest. Finn desperately wanted to fight some baddies. He also wanted some rest. He also wanted some food. He wanted to get out of the rain that was pelting down like nobody’s business!

The rain had come up out of nowhere. This afternoon he and Jake had lain on a hill and played the cloud shapes game for hours and hours, Jake telling the stories of all the bears, princesses, and ice kings they saw. Finn’s favorite character was the Lumpy Space Princess, a foul tempered princess who secretly (or not so secretly) loved gossip and drama and was actually a cloud but everyone treated as if she was just as normal and welcomed as everyone else. Finn loved those stories. Jake was halfway telling the story of Lumpy Space Princess saving her kingdom (Lumpy Space) from an invasion of vampires when all of the sudden the clouds turned dark and lighting and thunder wreathed the sky. The pair had had to hustle to get out of the rain. They hadn’t planned on rain, Finn’s bear skin hat was soaked and his long blonde hair underneath was plastered to his scalp. Poor Jake looked, well like a wet dog. His jowls dropped like those of a basset hound. Finn thought it was hilarious, Jake did not.

Bree was the closest settlement, so Bree it was! By the time they made it, the sun had gone down, and the gates were closed. It was by sheer chance that Finn had managed to sweet talk the gatekeeper into opening the gate with a bribe of baklava and a promise to help him kill the rats that had begun to infest his gatehouse. It was not the grand quest that the young ranger had hoped for, but it was a start. Big things have small beginnings after all.

“Well buddy,” Finn said, looking down to his best friend and companion, “where should we go first?”

[Marceline]

Jake
Bree-town
(Private with Frost)

Amid the deluge pouring down on the Breeland, Jake shook his head solemnly. “This stuff’s not gonna let up any time soon,” he said, before stretching his mustard-yellow body up and over Finn to keep his little brother out of the rain. If only someone else could stretch over Jake to keep him dry! Jake giggled as, from the top of his head, there sprouted an umbrella-shaped extension of his body. The fur on his face dried quickly once it was out of the rain.

When they got to the village, the gatekeeper’s eyes bulged unbecomingly at the sight of the giant stretchy dog with a parasol coming out of his head, but that was nothing compared to how he reacted when Jake began speaking. At the word “Howdy!”, the gatekeeper clutched at his baklava and keeled over.

Jake shrunk down to his normal size and sniffed at the man’s mouth and nose. “My dog nose tells me he’s still alive. He’s got breath that smells like the stuff, though. Gross,” Jake said, glancing back at Finn. He stood up on his hind legs and shrugged. “Oh well. But maybe let’s get him out of the rain.” And so Jake extended one paw and it lengthened and flattened into a makeshift cot, with which he scooped up the man and deposited him into the guardhouse before slamming the door shut.

“Well, that’s that!” Jake said with a chuckle as they walked through the streets of Bree. “I dunno what’s next, though. We already defeated Sir Slicer and got you the Magical Armor of Zelderon, then got rid of that armor because it was too frilly for you. PB hasn’t asked any favors of us since we transported those tarts, and Tree Trunks is off in the Crystal Dimension, so there’s no pies in our future.” A gust of cold air made Jake shiver. A dark shape shot past in a blur, and the flames in a couple nearby street lamps went out. “AAAAHHH! What was that?!” Jake shrieked. He shrank down to the size of Finn’s fist and dove into his bro’s rucksack. Trembling, he poked his head out from the bag to say, “Was that… a ghost? Or a vampire!??! Dude. We’re gonna DIE!”

[Baphởmet]

What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

For perhaps the hundredth time, Finn was very glad he did not have the sniffing power of Jake. In the midst of a deluge like this, there was no telling what sort of bad smells were getting washed out into the streets! He watched as Jake transformed his body into a cot and pulled the man inside and, for perhaps the hundred millionth time, he felt a little jealous of his brother for being about to shift and twist and stretch about like that. Jake’s special abilities, ones he’d gotten from either being part shape shifter or being cursed by a shape shifter (he liked to change up his story every time the question came up with a newcomer and Finnwas never brave enough to sit down and ask Jake exactly what was what), had gotten the pair out of half a hundred pickles. Once he acted as at the string in a labyrinth and nearly stretched himself into nothing by the time they made it to the center (much more on that little tale at a later time, once the appropriate liquids have been imbibed). Jake also never had to carry a weapon because he could simply manifest weapons out of his imagination. Finn, as adventurous and noble as he was, was not the most imaginative. That’s why he and Jake made such a great team. Just don’t ask Jake to imagine something to do while waiting out a knife storm.

“I’m sure there’s a quest to be had around here,” the young man assured his canine companion. “Bree is full of all sorts of mystery and subterfuge, there’ll be something…” he trailed off, distracted by a shadow in the rain. There had been a shadow, right? He was thankful for Jake’s umbrella stretching so he was having to peer through soaking eyes and hair, but that didn’t help for the space beyond.

Jake sensed it too. Something cold and clammy swept up through Finn’s legs and arms. Fear? Don’t be ridiculous. Finn-adan had no fear! Unless it was the ocean. But this was not the ocean! He squinted in the direction he was sure the movement came from and gripped the hilt of his tree sword. “Calm down Jake!” he said with a little more admonishment than he meant. Maybe he was a little afraid. Just a little. The lights were going out all down the street. Finn gulped. Lights were supposed to go out like that. They were covered from the rain and the wind wasn’t a howling gale. There was definitely something sinister up in Bree-town. It was time for Finn and Jake to get to work!

-- * -- * --

Perfect! She snickered and moved closer, floating just out of their range of vision. She knew they’d be coming into town sooner or later and she’d worked out a ton of pranks for them. The rain had been unexpected, but she was very good at rolling with the punches. She could take any set back and turn it into an opportunity. That’s just what one does when one is a thousand years old. She’d seen almost everything so she could easily prepare for anything. The two doofs were sufficiently freaked out now, the lights going out were a neat trick, one she technically couldn’t take credit for. She’d paid Nob and Bob to dress up in black cloaks and put out the lights one by one. Once she heard Jake shriek, she knew it was time for her to make her move. She adjusted the axe at her hip, taking a few experimental strums of the bass strings she’d tied to across the body of the deadly weapon.

Marcy swooped in just behind Jake’s right ear and whispered. “Well, took you long enough to get here.”

She swooped away quickly, ducking into the shadow of an alley nearby, waiting for the pair’s panic to reach another level of scaredy cat, then swooped in on the other side of Jake and whispered again. “I was wondering if my meal was every going to show up.” She broke in a sinister giggle then vanished again.

She watched the dark sky for the perfect moment then…

BOOOOOM!

She moved into place just as the lightning struck and the thunder rattled the windows of all the little buildings, appearing as if out of nowhere right in front of Finn and Jake. “Well, well, well if it isn’t a duo of wannabe gnome knights. Plant any magic beans lately?

[Marceline]

Bree-town
(Private with Frost)

“Duu-uuude,” groaned Jake in dismay. “I can’t calm down! What if it’s a you-know-what?! It’s gonna smash our skulls and breathe our vaporized blood mist!” But before Finn could answer, something swooped low and whispered in Jake’s ear. “AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!” he screamed. Quick as a flash, he withdrew his whole body into Finn’s backpack, where he sat shivering with cold and fear. Ordinarily, he would have made excuses for his bout of shrieking. His usual excuse when he got spooked and screamed was that he was simply singing his “scream song.” But the weather and the creepy voice in his ear made him forget all about excuses.

Nothing seemed to be happening outside of the backpack, so he stretched one eye up and out of the backpack flap. He looked like a dog with one very long antenna, which just so happened to have an eyeball attached to the end of it. “Who’s there?” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, hidden as he was inside the backpack. There came no answer from the mysterious voice, and Jake’s shoulders relaxed. But just moments later, the voice said, “I was wondering if my meal was ever going to show up.”

“AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! AHH! AHH!!! AAAAHH!!” Jake screamed once more. His eyes were wide and he withdrew the eyeball stalk so that he looked like a normal - if minuscule - yellow dog again. “Oh my glob, oh my glob, oh my glob,” he repeated in his terror. “Finn!” he whisper-yelled. “What the junk is going on out there??”

* * *

“Ahahaha!” Marceline giggled, enjoying the spectacle caused by her dramatic entrance. She knew Jake was afraid of vampires and loved to watch him squirm. Finn, on the other hand, was a reliable and mischievous henchman. “Calm down, weenies!” she went on, still laughing. “It’s just me!” Floating through the air as ever, she swooped in a playful circle around Finn and his incredible shrinking dog.

She reclined midair and withdrew a strawberry from her pocket, speared it with one of her sharp teeth, and sucked all the red from the fruit. When she was done, all that remained was a pale white fruit husk. “Ahhh,” she sighed. She tossed the deflated strawberry aside and did a flip, landing in a large puddle and splashing Finn with muddy water.

“It’s been so completely lame here with no one to pull pranks with, or to fight with,” she said, blowing a wet strand of black hair out of her face. She unslung her red bass from behind her back and began to idly pick out a melody. “I’ve missed my little henchman and his dog! But boy, have I got some stuff planned that will really make you say like what.”

[Baphởmet]

What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

Finn sighed. He didn’t know what had his buddy on edge so much, but Jake was acting as skittish as a cat (and Finn was not about to think about his sister and her equally magical cat). Was it just the thunderstorm that caused him to jump at shadows so much? That’s all it was, right? Shadows? Sure there could be monsters in just about any shadow one came across, but that didn’t mean there were monsters in any shadow. Right? He gulped. When Jake shrunk and jumped into his backpack, he knew something was up with him. “Duuuuude!” he echoed. “If you don’t relax old Barliman’s gonna make us sleep outside in the stables again.”

Finn saw something out of the corner of his eye but he assumed it was just the rain. Oh how he would wish it had just been the rain. He was too distracted to see it at first, what with Jake wiggling around in his backpack like some weird ass deer. He was about to set the backpack down and pull his friend out when he saw her.

She appeared in a crack of thunder with her axe-bass slung over her shoulder. She appeared so suddenly that, along with Jake’s reverberant scream-whisper, Finn dropped his backpack and tumbled back several paces, screaming himself as he landed hard in the muddy streets. It took him a moment to stop and realize who exactly it was that he and Jake were both screaming at. It was Marceline, the Vampire Queen! She looked as cool and calm as she always did. She didn’t even look like she was getting wet. That must be a vampire thing. She had once pretended to turn he and Jake into vampires as an elaborate prank but that had ended with them nearly falling off a cliff (okay they did fall off the cliff but the details were a bit murky).

Wow, had it just gotten really, really cold in Bree all of the suddenly. Finn shivered and his teeth chattered. He hadn’t been this cold since the Ice King froze them both and tried to make them play in a band.

“H-Hi Marceline. Y-You’ve g-got some p-p-pranks to play? L-L-Like what?” He paused and slapped his forehead with a wet smack. She hadn’t even been pranking him and he fell for her little joke. She was like that, always able to get the best of him in their witty exchanges; she must have a lot of tricks like that, being a 1000 year old vampire and all. Finn would never admit it to anyone (least of all himself), but he was both enamored and terrified of Marceline. She was the coolest and scariest person he’d ever fought, and she was a heckin’ good musician to top things off. They had once sung a duet together with PB and Jake providing back up instrumentation. Could her plan be musical? He was ready to beatbox at a moment’s notice.

-- * -- * --

She had them right where she wanted them. She smirked and continued to thrum the bass guitar. Literally, she had them right where she wanted to them. Bob and Nob appeared from an alleyway and proceeded to dump two baskets of smelly fish guts all over Finn and Jake. It wasn’t the most complex of pranks, but as far as reactions go, it was pretty darn good. Finn, the more squeamish of the two, looked like he was gonna ralph. The two hobbit took a bow and disappeared. They had to get back to work. How boring! She needed some more reliable henchmen. She had a quest so brilliant and hilarious that if she didn’t share it soon she might just burst!

“I have a quest for the tuna of you,” she started, floating closer until she could see Jake’s googly looking eye socket poking out of Finn’s backpack. “I heard the Ice King is trying to come up with a scheme to kidnap Princess Wildberry and Lumpy Space Princess. Supposedly he sent out a tiny cat assassin to knock them out and bring them to him. You wouldn’t want to shark your duties and let them get taken now would you? That is, unless you’ve turned pacifishts. What’d you say, old chums?” She giggled, pleased with all her puns and leaned in close to the backpack where she knew Jake was hiding. “BOO!”

[Marceline]

Bree-town
(Private with Frost)

With a loud thump, Finn dropped his bright green backpack. Jake was jostled about with the contents - Finn’s trusty bag of trail mix, a book of silly drawings, and a spyglass. “Owowowow!” he groaned as the heavy bag of cashews and almonds and sweet, milky chips fell on top of him. This was an occupational hazard of shrinking down so small - the most harmless of everyday objects could become deadly bludgeons. He recovered from his close encounter with trail mix in time to hear Finn say, “Like what?”

“HA!” Jake giggled. “I knew he’d fall for that one.” A strong smell reached him inside the backpack, so he stretched his nose out into the open air to sniff at whatever Marceline had brought along. It smelled pungent and possibly edible, so Jake extended a leg and dipped a toe into the goopy pile of fish guts. He brought the stuff back to his mouth, licked his toe, and swallowed. “Mmm, gutsy!” he said. Like so many things in life, it was weird, but good! He paused before going back for seconds - it seemed like Marceline and Finn were conspiring now. Jake was never one to pass up a good adventure plot, so he extended an ear to listen Marceline talking about Ice King and the various princesses he was planning to kidnap. Jake sighed. Oh, Ice King. What a hopeless, crusty old fool. And yet, there was something about him that invited sympathy and kindness, as maniacal and scheming as he could be. Jake peeked an eyestalk out of the backpack again, just in time to see Marceline lean in and yell, “BOO!”

“AAHHHHHHHhhhhhhh… . . . !” he screamed. He caught himself midway through his scream and purposefully let it peter off into nothing. “Oh, y’know, just singin’ my scream song!” He grinned sheepishly at Marceline, then stretched his legs to step out of the backpack and return to his normal size. The rain was still falling and he scooped up another handful of fish guts before saying, “So how’re we gonna deal with Ice King?”

* * *

Marceline threw back her head and laughed at the sight of Jake eating fish guts. “Ahahahaha! You weirdo. Those fish guts were just for a prank, not for a snack.” Still, she let Jake carry on eating the slimy innards - that’d mean less for Nob and Bob to clean up once the trio of tricksters had moved on, which she was sure the two hobbits would appreciate. They had, after all, agreed to this prank half out of fear and half out of mischief. They reminded her of Finn back when he’d agreed to become her henchman only to save her frail old former henchman from eternal servitude. Finn had proved to be a fun guy to mess around with in the years since - henchman, bandmate, and friend.

Jake, on the other hand, was a treat and a half simply because he was super scared of her vampire bite. Marcy knew it, too. She fed off it. It was, therefore, important to keep Jake on his toes whenever they met, even while engaged in some lighthearted pranking or princess-saving.

“Well,” she began, “I just so happen to know the assassin’s name. It’s Me-mow! You remember Me-Mow, don’t you, Jake?” Jake gulped and went pale, and Marceline knew he was remembering the time the tiny cat assassin had threatened him with poison if he didn’t murder Wildberry Princess. “Ice King’s secret diaries are buried in a suitcase. I think that’d be a good starting place. For, you know, blackmail.” She giggled and struck an ominous chord on her bass. “I’ll let you two decide how to deal with Me-Mow!”

[Baphởmet]

What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

Me-Mow. That was a name that Finn had not heard in some time. The tiny cat (some might call her a kitten to their peril) assassin had nearly done them in during their last encounter with her. She maybe be only a few inches tall, but she was a study in the art of compact evil. There was problem more evil in Me-Mow than in all of the Flame Kingdom. Okay, maybe that was stretch, but Finn knew for certain that any mission against her was going to be a harrowing one. He looked over at Jake to judge his reaction. Finn himself hadn’t really dealt with the pint sized demon cat, it had been his canine buddy that had borne the brunt of her vicious assault.

Despite being covered in fish guts (seriously Jake, c’mon man, not in front of Marceline!), there was fear and apprehension in Jake’s eyes and his yellowish fur seemed to turn a shade paler. If the dreadful Ice King had employed this assassin as a guardian, it wasn’t just going to be a prank or a simple snatch and grab. It could very well be a fight to the death. Preferably not his death.

He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and drew out his branch hilted sword. “Me-Mow won’t know what hit her!”

Sheathing the sword after his dramatic acceptance of the task, Finn began to think on what the mission itself actually was. Stealing the secret diaries of the Ice King. What sort of dreadful, terrible, daemonical secrets did he have committed to paper? An involuntary shiver ran down his spine. The rain was still coming down, but suddenly the world seemed even colder. Merely invoking the title of the Ice King could draw his icy attentions, the rumors said. Finn looked north. Somewhere out there was a mountain, conquered by the dreadful lord of frost and snow, and filled with, of all things, penguin and snowmen (both real and the kind made from snow) minions. A gust of icy wind hit him full in the face, bringing the young hero out of his reverie. Perhaps it would be good to have something on the Ice King. He was a figure shrouded in cold enigma; knowledge of him did not come cheap. This mission would be dangerous, very dangerous, but the potential reward was immeasurable. Marceline wanted the diaries for blackmail, Finn decided he wanted them to strategize against the Ice King.

He looked at the vampire for a moment with serious contemplation. They had been friends for years now, but she was still as much a mystery now as she had been when she pressed him into servitude all those years ago. She was fun, an excellent musician, a genius schemer, and a trickster par excellence. But what did Finn really know about her? There was history between her and the Ice King, and while she gave out drips and drabs of the story, much of it was shrouded in the mists of history.

“I accept your prank,” Finn said after a short moment, “and Jake does too. Now let’s get out of the rain and start planning before we all get sick with sneezing fits.”

[Rillewen]

Private with @Ercassie

Late Third Age


Attúbel
In the wild, en route to Archet/Chetwood

An owl hooted in the distance, startling Bel. She glanced around, trying not to feel too nervous. Her horse, Tinithas, seemed a little nervous as well. Most likely, he was nervous because Bel was nervous. She patted his neck lightly, speaking softly to calm him. The girl began, for the first time since leaving the safety of her home, to question the wisdom of her impulsive departure from it. She might have been able to find someone else to go, but no one had readily volunteered. And if no men would go, then that left only her; a woman. And anyway, she was the only one, it seemed, who cared enough to take it upon herself to go. So here she was, glancing around nervously as the night settled around her, dusk fading into darkness around her.
Should she stop somewhere? Or should she keep going? Tinithas couldn't continue through the night, of course, even if Bel could, but was it safe to stop? She hadn't exactly planned that far ahead, and had not brought a bedroll or anything. She'd barely taken the time to grab any food. The conversation between herself and Gladhron replayed in her head as she peered down the darkening path.


"He is badly wounded, I can do nought but clean and wrap the wounds. He is in need of a healer if he is to recover properly." Bel had told him, deeply concerned about the wounded young man lying unconscious before her.
"But where will you find a healer? There is nought but this inn for at least a days' journey. You know that as well as I." Gladhron frowned, pressing a damp cloth to his bleeding head wound as Bel worked on cleaning his brother's more serious wounds.
"The nearest healer of which I know dwells in the Chetwood forest, near Archet. I've been there once before, and I believe I can find the way again." She answered softly, thoughtful.
Gladhron frowned deeper. "Nay, I cannot allow you to go." He said, surprised at the very suggestion. "That is far too dangerous a journey for a lady to undertake."
Bel looked up and frowned at him. "I have made the trip before." She informed him, leaving out that she'd had company, then. "You certainly aren't fit for such a journey; you're like to pass out the moment you try to stand. And anyway, I know the way; do you?"
She glanced at him. "Put a little more pressure on that gash, you need to stop the bleeding. Yes, that's better." She turned back to cleaning Gwestion's leg, where a gash had been ripped in his skin, dirt and small rocks clinging to the wound. She did her best to clean all of that out, fearing it may become infected if she didn't clean it properly.
"I still refuse to allow you to go." Gladhron protested. "The road is perilous -what parts of it are still maintained- and wrought with bandits and orcs, and possibly wolves. Even seasoned warriors are like to run into trouble; what hope do you think you would have?" He posed the question like a challenge, it seemed.
Bel proceeded to wrap Gwestion's wound to keep it as clean as possible, not giving him an answer, lest she start an argument, which he didn't need right now. Inside, she was angry at Gladhron's words, even if she knew he was right. Still, someone must bring a healer.
After doing all she could for Gwestion, she moved without a word to tend to Gladhron's wounds.
"Do you truly intend to go?" He asked, wincing slightly as she dabbed at his bleeding forehead.
"If I cannot find anyone else to go, then what other choice is there?" She asked. "You must rest, and I doubt if anyone else will be willing." She sighed, wishing... but there was no use in wishing for things that were impossible. "I shall try to find another to go, but if I cannot, then I certainly will."
Gladhron sighed. "He would never forgive me if I allow you to venture off on your own. Give me the night to rest, and I shall at least join you." Bel had never actually seen Gladhron look so serious as he did then. She paused and thought about that for a moment, feeling a little surge of happiness to hear him say that about Gwestion... did that mean Gwestion cared about her? She tried to focus on the matter at hand; she knew that in Gladhron's current condition, he was more likely to slow her down, than be of any help.
"You don't look so good, yourself, Gladhron." She pointed out, frowning. "Are you sure you're well?"
"That certainly boosts my self-confidence," He gave wry smile to accompany his sarcasm, which eased her concerns slightly, at least. If he felt well enough to make jokes, he must not be too bad, she figured. "I assure you I'm fine, I only need a few hour's sleep," He assured her. "Give me time to rest, and I shall escort you to this healer. Promise you shall not leave without telling me?"
Bel hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. I will delay until morning, and wake you before I set out... unless, of course, I find another to go in my stead." She promised. "I shall not leave without telling you, first."

And she hadn't, not exactly. Gladhron, with his head wounded, had been unwakeable in the morning, which worried Bel all the more and confirmed to her that it was quite necessary that they had a healer tend to them. She had left a note to let him know she was leaving, and then asked the innkeeper's wife to look after the brothers in her absence. Then, while saddling her horse, she had been confronted by the inn's stable hand.
"Where are you going?" He asked, frowning as she tightened the cinch on her saddle. Bel glanced up and sighed. "You refused to go to Archet and get a healer. So I am going, instead."
"But you can't." He told her, frowning. "Put that horse away, you've got no call to go traipsing off into the wild, getting yourself killed or worse...least of all for the likes of a couple of rangers." He scowled.
Bel's temper flared, and she put her hands on her hips. He was not only insulting Gladhron and Gwestion, but all other rangers...her deceased father included. She would not stand for that. "Those rangers," She retorted, "once saved our lives and this inn. Or had you forgotten about that?" Irritated, she swung herself up into the saddle, her cloak swirling around her, settling gracefully over the horse's hindquarters. "And furthermore, I would thank you not to speak ill of the man I love." She added, surprising herself for admitting it so openly. Feeling her face begin to flush, she kicked Tinithas' sides lightly, and the horse took off swiftly before the stableman had a chance to respond.


Now, a day into her journey, the sun had set and she was growing nervous, thinking about the dangers Gladhron had tried to warn her about. Was he merely exaggerating, as usual, or was it truly that dangerous? She had brought her father's sword, at least, but did she know how to use it? Not one bit. Hopefully it would be enough just having it. Remembering the wolves that had attacked the inn the day she first met Gwestion, however, Bel felt a knot tightening in her stomach, wondering if there were any of those lurking around. She urged Tinithas to go a little faster, thinking of Gwestion, lying there wounded, needing a healer.
Suddenly, a different kind of wolf appeared. A man emerged out of the darkness, grabbing her horse's halter as he stopped her. "Well, this is a treat, isn't it?" He grinned up at Bel.
She gasped, startled. "W-who are you?"
"That's not important. What's a pretty young girl like you doing out here? All alone, are you?" He grinned wider.
Bel tried to pull her horse away from him. "Let go of my horse, else I shall be forced to run you down." She threatened, trying to hide her fright with anger. The man laughed, however, unworried by her threat. "Run me down, huh? I think not. Come and join me, instead." He held up a hand as if to help her down.
Bel scowled and kicked the horse's sides to make him flee, but the man held his halter firmly, not letting Tinithas obey. "Release my horse at once!" Bel demanded, her heart racing.
"My dear young lady, hasn't anyone warned you about the dangers of traveling alone?" The man inquired, a smirk playing on his face. He grabbed her leg and pulled, trying to get her off the horse.
"Take your hand off me!" Bel retorted, growing more alarmed. She kicked at him and managed to catch his jaw. Then, with only a little fumbling, she drew her father's sword from its scabbard and pointed it at him. It was long for her, and heavy, but she hoped she wouldn't be forced to try and fight. "Let me pass, or I shall-" Before she had to think up any sort of threat, Bel was surprised by a new set of hands grabbed around her waist from the other side, and snatched her out of the saddle. With a startled little scream, Bel fell back against a second man who had come up on her other side while she was distracted with the first man. A third stepped up quickly and grabbed the weapon from her hands before she knew what was happening.
"You were saying? Or... what?" The first laughed, approaching her with a smirk. "Did you really think to frighten me with that, girl?"
"Let me go!" Bel yelled, squirming frantically. Tinithas fled a few paces away, startled by the noise and struggling near him.
"And leave you to wander into who knows what sort of danger? Not a chance, dear girl." The man snickered.
Desperate to get free from them, Bel rammed her elbow back into the ribs of the man holding her, and broke free. Before she'd gone more than a few steps, however, a fourth man caught her. Gripping her arm, he tried to pull her close and kiss her, but she squirmed and ducked, avoiding the unwanted kiss though she couldn't get her arm out of his grip. Swinging her free hand at him, she caught his face with something between a slap and a punch, leaving scratches from her fingernails. Angered, he shoved her away from him, holding his jaw in surprise. Bel stumbled backward, right into the arms of the first bandit who held onto her tightly. "Somewhat feisty, isn't she?" He laughed.
"Let go of me!" Bel demanded, trying in vain to break free from him. "Let me go!" Why didn't she listen to Gladhron? Really, what was she thinking, running off on her own like this? She'd be no help to Gwestion if she was killed or taken captive, and things were looking quite hopeless for her right now...

[Tharmáras]

GM Non-IC Update. Changes to the OP, instituting new rules regarding posting content, have been made 06/15/21. Everything posted before this announcement is not considered (nor will it ever be considered) a breach of thread guidelines.

[Rillewen]

@Pele Alarion @Ercassie

Brooke Willows
Heading toward the Spruce residence
(Continued from Bree market)

The walk seemed to take hours. It may have been. Brooke’s feet were cold, and it seemed like a lot of work to trudge through the snow. She dreaded arriving at her destination, and tried to think how she might get away without having to actually encounter the frightful man. Maybe she could leave the letter on the doorstep. No, Claire had demanded that she make sure he got it. If she left it, then it could get blown away by the wind, or ruined by the weather, or taken by another person. Perhaps, then, she could stuff it into the man’s hand and then run? That, too, seemed unlikely. She had wanted to do that with Henley, but that had not worked out. And then, the fact that her feet were so cold and she knew she was no good at running, well, running away wouldn’t be a good option, she realized.

Stopping at the edge of the clearing with a sigh, Brooke was almost disappointed to see that she had, at last, arrived. The house stood ominously before her. Smoke rose from the chimney, indicating that someone was home. Too bad. She hesitated, fingering the ties on her bag. What now? Dare she go up and knock on the door? That is what she ought to do, she knew. But that was the most difficult part of the errand. The long walk through the snow was nothing… now that she was here, it was all she could do to keep from going back. One slow step after another, she started across the clearing toward the house, hoping things might actually go better here than they did at the barber’s. One could only hope, after all, however futile those hopes may be...

[Ercassie]

@Rillewen @Pele Alarion

'I used to dream that I would meet a prince
But Gor ! Almighty ! Have you seen what's happened since ?'

(lyrics from 'Master of the House', from the musical 'Les Mis')




Sullivan 'Sully' Spruce and his wife Bryony
Flashback - the Murder of Dorian Bay
Witchwood Cottage, Archet - 1 year ago

The sheets were not silken but they were sheets and after such a time the pair of them'd had out in the wild lands, she was grateful for sheets. So long as he did not expect her now to wash the sheets. That was the type of thing which wives did for their husbands, was it not ? Washing … Stretching out in the last throes of slumber, Bryony felt grown up in a way that only a woman laid in her mother's bed could feel. She was now the woman of the house. With a bonafide man laid out … somewhere on the floor she hadn’t swept yet. And might not bother to sweep, for all that.

Rolling over to rest her chin in her hands, the Bree-woman propped up on her elbows. Narrowing her eyes she raked them down the length of the huge bear of a fellow littering the rug. He smelt of the whiskey they had shared last night. His chest rose and fell as she dared close enough to walk her fingers up it, and she hummed merrily tune under her breath. A great meaty slab of a fist swatted at her amusement and she drew back with the ghost of a smile when he missed making contact.

"Shut the twittering, woman," Sully heaved himself to turn and face away from her. "Ain't you hungry ? Go and fetch some vittles' or .." he fell away from caring to think up any alternatives. To think at all, when his head was so swollen. "An' quit the dangang banging."

"That's not me," she had imagined the noise within her own head, and startled to learn he heard it too. Was he now somehow privy to her most innermost thoughts ? Sully rolled over to evade all light and day. His new wife drew her knuckles across the wooden floor, found and threw a shoe. It was his, not hers, but that was all the same now and mattered not a jot. What was his was also hers now. The cottage for a start.



The morning after still looked much like the night before. Thin shards of sunlight were thrown like spears through the cracks in the wooden shutters. She could make out souvenirs of their unruly celebration. Bottles emptied, belongings strewn here and there. Bryony stood on a thigh high leather boot that actually was hers, and clutched her ankle in dismay. A primal response to the hurt done her by the inanimate object, she hurled it with an almighty 'Ngrrhhh" across the room. To compliment her effort, Sully groaned like the slow open of a door in his wife's mind.

Clutching her head in one hand, Bryony spun to find the small kitchen and rest easy with now both hands clasping for a lone surviving bottle. It was emptied of all contents but the bottom spittle and she regretted the sprinkling of this as soon as she had rained it through her teeth. Her fast broken, in a manner of speaking, the blemished bride tottered around the open room, harvesting her holy shawl from where it had been flung. The mirror swang away from sight of her, costumed in the thin skirts and bodice she was years too old to suitably pull off. The accompanying shawl would keep her warm if nothing else.


Dragging one of Sully's socks like a cloth along all surfaces, she finally shook it out over the floor where her spouse still snoozed. Wicked was the glee which filled her as she unclasped the windows, rallying in light to see her turn and spin in a girlish delight. Rather more sobering was her struggle with the window. One glass pane should really fold up to tuck in beside it's twin, and allow air to pass through aneath. But the clasp was stubborn and she was impatient. A slap against the glass was the worst that she might do against it's defiant rebellion. And another and ..

That banging again. Was it really in her head ? It sounded … It sounded like it was coming from behind the closet door !

One wary brown eye glanced toward the sleeping grizzly and contemplated involving him. The other espied the bottle she had emptied and not smashed. Not yet. More fearful of rousing up her husband than facing the noise alone, Bryony seized up the bottle and raised it high in one shaking hand. Tentatively, she crept toward the small closet door, hesitating just a moment before snatching the round handle in her free hand, and tearing it open ..



Of all things that she was not expecting, the man was top of that list. He ought not to be, since of course she had known that he was here. Last night. But .. how was it that he was still here ? Ah. Oh yes. They couldn't exactly have let him run home to raise the bell and have all folks come raging with the pitchforks. Sully had said that Bryony ought to kill him, seeing as he'd killed the brewer just the day before. One apiece, share and share alike, after all they were now man and wife. She had not cared to, and so .. well shutting him inside the closet had seemed like the best way to avoid that problem. At the time.

It was now long after the time she ought to have killed him. The landlord. The kindly stupid fool of a landlord. This was all down to him, after all. It was not she who had instigated his abduction. It was not her fault at all ! There she had been, dutifully minding her own business while Sully made his contact with his contact. Bill, or .. somebody. That was why they had come to town. She had never wanted to come, but it was impossible to refuse Sully. He said she would come with him and so she had. And then that interfering landlord had chanced by and caught himself a stare. Sully had not liked that, not a piece ! The Breeman was smart enough to recognise his error and his danger, and remarked quite innocently how he had thought she looked like somebody he once knew. Columbine Witchwood …

She could not blame him for that of course. Since the late Columbine Witchwood had in fact been Bryony’s mother. Before she’d left home, Bree, everything. That was the reason why Bryony had not wanted to come back to Archet. The chance of running into her parent, or to anybody else who might ask why she had run away and why she had been away so long .. The contents of a true answer could not be disclosed. And the last time she had even entertained the thought of coming home, it had been with .. another. It was best that she not think on him at all. Past was past and couldn't be changed now.




The landlord of the next morn seemed to have fared about as badly as had any other item in the house the night before. A riotous homecoming it had been and no mistake ! The elderly gent had his wrists forcibly bound together, between his legs as it amused her. With one arm pulled down in front of his chest, the other arm wrapped behind his back, he could not now even walk as much as hop and sort of flop about, all crouched over and making strange grunting gasps. It was quite ludicrous to observe and Bryony was not sure why his unlooked for intervention had so worried her. He was after all, a pathetic sight, his own woollen socks stuffed into his mouth as he gagged and sought to speak due what good it might do it.

Inspecting what was left, the bride put one finger upon her lips, and then pulled her unhappy friend to his feet. He could not make it upright but loitered in the perfect position for her to kick him square in the behind ! He was sweaty, and yet cold to touch, she reviled and wiped off the hand she had laid on him, against his white hair. "Shh" she said, and he nodded, as though a puppy learnt a trick. Carefully, she untangled the gag and dropped it's drool-spent weight onto the floor with great revulsion.

"Eurgh !" she could not keep from sharing.

"Please," he replied, way past the point of humiliation. "I have a family. Children .."

As though he had caused her some great offence, she struck hard with the glass bottle against the side of his head. "Shh !" she said again. Then dashed the bottle hard against the floor. It splintered into a river of tiny slivered peril.



"I did what you wanted," the landlord persisted. "The deed is legitimate. The house is yours … both of yours .." They each cast a glance toward the immense bulk that was Sully.

"I remember you," the revelation startled even Bryony, who spoke it. "I remember you, from back when I was a little girl."

"Bryony" he nodded, eagerly, as though a starved man now offered food. "Little Bryony Witchwood. After all this time .."

"You have a wife," she recollected. "Two daughters, am I right ? Aster. Aster and Allysum. I expect they have daughters of their own now." she mused, leadingly.

"Aster. She has a son and a daughter," Dorian Bay believed that he had tapped into the spark of humanity which might remain in Bryony.

"Family .." the woman rolled her eyes. "They love you, they need you," she meandered into thought, her eyes drifting to someplace beyond all that could be seen about her. Dorian was nodding.

"Please," the landlord said again. "I can help you. I can tell them. It was not down to you, any of this. It was him .."


An almighty shove sent the hapless Breeman shuffling in his absurd and desperate dance for balance, across the room. His head was bowed low because of the way he was bound. His head shattered the stubborn pane of glass which Bryony had not found means to open. Until now ..


"Stupid," she shook her head, even as her captive skated on the broken glass she'd littered moments earlier. "You should have minded your own business. Should have gone home to that family of yours ..," she lectured. Quite belatedly. For by this point the landlord had slunk to his knees, dazed, his head free and frantic in the fresh morning air. He opened his eyes and dared to wonder his luck as a thin river of blood ran it’s course down his brow. But the rest of him was yet within the cabin. Bryony resolved the issue and the threat of his calling for help (for all the good it would not do him), by leaning upon his head with both her hands. The Breeman's throat was punctured by the upturned and jagged edges of the broken window pane. For the sake of being certain, the new bride ran his now gushing jugular along the length of the whole glass, severing the flesh to pulp. There would be no putting this man back together again. Dorian Bay had left the building. His head had, at the least.


"Didn't I say, way back when, that I was hungry ?" Sully's deep tones turned the murderess from indulging yet further in the wonder of what she had done. With an overly dramatic sigh, the huge man scratched his beard and unfolded his heft from the floor. He hauls on his shoes, then tried on the landlord's fine jacket and watched his wife grimace as the tiny sewn seams split all the way up his giant back.

"Too small," she lamented, caught up his errant sock she had been dusting with, and tossed it in his face.

"Best I go hunt up some food then, while you clean up this mess," he closed in on a massive axe which was hung from the wall, and tested it's weight, not unimpressed. "S'gonna smell soon."

"My father was a woodcutter," she mentioned, strangely proud to see the glisten of sweat on her new husband's vast biceps. "You've never hunted in woodland before .." she warned him.

Sully turned, swung the axe experimentally against thin air and grinned when she did not even duck. "Ferny said the village tanner has just died. I'll be the tanner," he stepped in close, and cupped her chin in a hand which could crush it like an almond in a vice. "You'll be the tanner's wife," he decreed. "There’s fresh bait about this place enough to chase out all sorts of beasties." To make his point, the new Breeman took up Dorian’s decapitated corpse by one foot and dragged it clear of the cabin.

"You’ll be the best tanner they’ve ever seen," his wife threw back as he left, straddling his first hide, and having it wave a sorry farewell through stone cold fingers on the ground behind him. And if Sully had thought for an instant that she was took by sentiment. Her next words saw him smirk. "We'll be needing to pay for a new window !" she called out, chidingly.

Wives are meant to nag their husbands, after all. And she was his wife now. It said so, on the deed which they had forced the landlord to write and legitimise. The Witchwood cabin was now the property of Mr and Mrs Sullivan Spruce. Newest residents of Archet, and of Breeland. Tanner was a fair enough profession. The smell would hide all manner of secrets and there would always be a reason to find blood in the house, a knife in her strong husband's hand.

She had not wanted to come home to Bree. But the more she thought about it, this could be the best thing she dared wish for. The Spruces were settling into Archet. Let any just dare to try and stop them ..

[Ercassie]

@Rillewen @Pele Alarion

Sullivan Spruce and Bryony Spruce
Witchwood Cottage, Archet Woods
A year after the ‘disappearance’ of local landlord Dorian Bay

Wild beasts defecate, urinate or otherways mark their territory. Sully was in this regard (and a good deal others) a similar beast. His latest vocation as a tanner had but furthered his already questionable hygiene; so his latest home and it's surrounding vicinity were now long since inundated by the debris of animal slaughter. Skins and hides both were festooned all about the residence in various stages of production, for to take the raw resource all the long way to an end product of fine leather was no easy evolution. Horns and hooves must be discarded, hair removed, even before the series of 'sheet' work started to soften and waterproof what else would putrefy and leak. When it at last satisfied all the stages of preparation, Sully's work would fetch a handsome price, not least because he demanded a high price and few dared to ever argue the point.

Each of the tanner's broad arms was wider than his wife's head and he regularly towered over his neighbours with a vast trunk-like torso and a leering smirk. The small homely cottage that Bryony had 'inherited' had been since entirely refashioned by the collection of antlers, horns and other trophies of the intrepid hunter. With a resigned sigh, Mrs Spruce lost a staring contest with a bedevilled example of her husband's home-made taxidermy. Sully not only enjoyed the macabre art but quite frequently experimented in designing some truly disturbing concoctions. Canine teeth in this example glistened from within the beak of a stuffed owl, and a small inanimate squirrel bore no fluffy bush at his behind, but a slick, coiled and reptilian snake's tail. The 'lady' of the house baulked from such a sight and turned back to the task at hand.


Mr Spruce had his back to his spouse, and his attention to his knives. It was not the wisest course of action for the woman to dare, however swiftly, about her small chest of private trinkets, but if she did not live dangerously, she did not know how to live at all. Each time that Sully got himself too deep about some ungodly scheme and vanished some months at a time, each of these times Bryony was forced to do whatsoever she could to gather coin enough meanwhile to eat. She was not without her wiles and her ways, and she would be damned before she allowed her husband any quarter of her earnings. So the loose floorboard that she had prised up in her childhood, the one she had convinced herself that she alone knew existed .. it was where she stowed all of her ill-gotten gains. Pennies, jewellery, heirlooms that might be worth a thing or two, or sold back to those she'd stolen them from, for a price. Mrs Spruce could put her hand within her hidden trove, and recognise by touch all those things that she knew to be within.

So it was a shock that painted the shadow over her the woman's heart. When she realised that there was naught in her small refuge, and no, in fact it was far worse than nothing. There was a playing card placed there to taunt her, an ace of all things. Bryony drew out the tiny mocking shape of that offensive item, caught up at the very end of her fingers as though she could scarcely stand to have it come in contact with her skin.


She knew what it meant, what he would know that she would know it meant. It went far beyond a symbol of his mocking, wordless ‘I win ! I win !’. Further more there was only one means by which they had ended up in her secret place. It was not even that her husband was blatantly informing her that he had discovered her hideaway, or even that he was boasting of his own private dealings. It was that he'd taken the time to think how best he could hurt and shock the woman he was supposed to trust in all the world ! He'd deliberately planned for her to find this at a time when she was seeking solace and comfort in her own material possessions. Back to her, the tanner carried on about his work, so that she could only imagine the smirk which had set up camp within his salt and pepper beard. There was no way that he had not been expecting her to find his handiwork, no doubt he had been waiting on it some hours now. Yet never given any part of his anticipation away.

Well, if he thought that she was going to put up with such insult and downright atrocious dealings, he had another thing coming ! And that other thing was the first item she might lay her shaking hands upon. A pan. A metal pan fair full of glue that he'd been stewing on the stove. Bryony closed her fingers around the burning handle, raised it up on high and turned the contents as high over Sully as she could manage ! It splashed his back where he sat, and saw the immense man to leap from his seat. But all that he found to explain the assault was the slamming of the wooden door and a screech that shattered the woods just beyond, terrifying birds to flight.

Clayton ‘Clay’ Dogwood
Outside, hidden, spying on the cottage

A sudden clap beat out it's stark alarm from somewhere behind all the hanging skins, draped out like laundry. Clay startled at first from Bryony's abrupt flight from the cottage and then second from the birds which had lit out from the woodland behind him. Peering first back to where he could espy nothing, and then out to where an extremely angry Mrs Spruce was crashing down her steps, the young man narrowed his eyes intrigued. She was leaving ! Alone !

Clay had just set his mind toward following the woman when he caught out of his eye a figure arriving behind him. Struggling to assign a name to the unknown girl's face, he frowned, crouched down and, just in case, prepared to feign searching for something in the grass. It was not like he was here officially, after all. In fact more than one person at work had suggested that he cease what they called a ‘personal vendetta’. But he was so sure. And Amber was counting on him, her family still in pieces since the disappearance of her grandfather. Clay would do near about anything for Amber. So here he was. Noone had to know, anyway. Not unless he found something, and then they would sure be distracted from the fact that he’d been there at all.


The girl he did not recognise (Brooke) dawdled as slow as ever she could manage to make her way to Witchwood Cottage, and he cursed under his breath at the headstart that his quarry had now gained. Stupid girl ! He might never now be able to catch up that dratted woman and spy out what she was up to ! On the other hand, what did this girl think she was doing ? In Archet, in this part of Archet. And alone ? She didn’t look lost. She was heading toward Witchwood Cottage with a purpose, albeit it far from an urgent one. This unlooked for interruption was either going to award him some great insight into lives he cared not to imagine, or else all his time here would be wasted. Rolling his eyes, the young man settled down in as little comfort as he had found here, to at least observe what happened next.

[Rillewen]

Brooke Willows
Timidly approaching Witchwood Cottage

Clay wasn't the only one startled by the loud bang as Bryony exited the house. Brooke jumped, instantly ducking behind the nearest tree before the approaching person could see her. Was it Sully? Was he coming to yell at her and chase her off his property!? Her heart raced as she peered around the trunk and watched Mrs Spruce disappear into the forest. Letting out a slow breath, Brooke closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. She wasn't shivering quite as much anymore, but she wasn't sure that was a good thing. If she could just hurry up and leave this letter...

She sighed, knowing she shouldn't put this off much longer. If she moved any slower, it would be nighttime before she knocked on his door. She certainly didn't want to be here at night, and she was even more strongly opposed to walking home through the woods after dark. Who knows what might be lurking... who might be lurking. Stepping out from her hiding place with a shiver more of fright than cold, the girl tried to convince herself to be brave. But really, she didn't feel very brave. Her mother was. Why couldn't she be more like her? Brooke tried to think of what her favorite book character would do, trying to pretend she was like them, even though she knew she was not. Each step brought her closer and closer to doom, it felt like.

Perhaps her imagination was making it seem more frightening than it really was. It was just a house. Just a simple little cabin in the forest. The only thing scary about it was... the occupant. And the evidence around about it of many poor, helpless creatures having been slaughtered, their skins turned into hides. That, of course, unsettled her tremendously. She didn't want to see dead animals, or their skins. The blood all over everything did not make the place look any more inviting, either... why did she have to be the one stuck with delivering this letter?

@Ercassie

[Ercassie]

Sullivan 'Sully' Spruce encountering Brooke @Rillewen
Witchwood Cottage, Archet

He wasn’t fond of asking. Asking implied that he did not know the answer, or that he required something of somebody else. What’s more it let everybody know it, the moment you opened your fool mouth. When he was a child, he was ever being clouted all around the head for ‘asking’. If he wanted something, he was trained to find a way of fetching it himself and not bothering folks who were busy. So some decades later, the same principle applied. If there was a means to gain a thing without the act of begging for it, Sully would concoct that means. It seemed that his accomplice was of similar mind. He could have out and out called Bryony to confess how she’d come by all the treasures which he’d spied her hide beneath the floorboard. He knew plenty fellas who would whoop their wife for holding out on them. Truth was though she didn’t hold out on him. There had been many occasions when his wily woman had provided some miracle means to get them out of a scrape. She didn’t flaunt her accomplishments. She simply let him in on the secret when that secret could profit them both. It did not embarrass him to have bound such a clever mind to his side. What though was important was to ensure that the woman did not start to think she might just do without him. She might be the squirrel who found all the nuts, but he was the strong tree in which that same little squirrel sheltered.

There was no what could be termed ‘romance’ between them. There were times of course. That they enjoyed one another’s company. There were many countless more times when she yelled him out, or belted him back when he swung at her. And though they both cavorted some dirty deeds, there were times he woke beside a woman quite his match beside him. Hard drinking, coarse swearing, dishevelled and ever nagging about his works all about her house, a man needed a little something to recall the sweeter things in life.


Sully Spruce would not be without his Bryony. Neither would he admit this to another living soul. But he would not turn down an evening at the Willows house either, when the hostess made it very clear how much more hospitable she could be. Fragrant stinking, all-appealing, never telling him he’s a fool or raising up a frying pan to strike his head .. there was good times to be had at Mrs Willows’s card table. Making himself some good coin while she fixed him and all the boys her pie. Not to say that it amused him to do so with her lump of a husband sat, all awkward and unable to make words to stop them. Jeff needed the money and lacked the gumption to preserve his wife’s honour. If another man so much as came calling or chatting with Bryony, they’d regret it. She’d smack them up proper herself, knowing he’d do far worse. She could do much worse herself, than old Sully.

There were enough treasures in that hideyhole to colour Mr Spruce impressed. And aware it’s time to remind his wife quite where the balance of them stood. So he took her hard earned (who knew how) keepsakes. He flittered them away as he liked and as she would know that he could, should he take the notion into his head to do so. The ace was as much of an explanation as he should require. More though, they were enough to provoke his wife into a jealous rage. Didn’t hurt none to remind himself how frightful angry she could get over him going about things without her. It fed his ego. It fed so many levels of his enjoyment. And he had been looking forward to the moment that she found him out for some days now. Like a child at Christmas.


Until he had become distracted in the long delay before discovery. It might have seemed that he was hard at his work. The man’s ears though were trained, like an animal on the prowl. He sat at his chair, boots propped against the table, but he had noted still that the birds had stopped their singing in the trees outside. There was a slight but apparent crunch of tread in snow. Somebody was out there. He had taken to sharpening his knife, so he’d have it close to hand. His eyes were cast low and seeming on his task, but just as drawn to the shadow which would tell if some critter came a creeping to their open door. The creak of the floorboard he had imagined was his intruder. Bryony’s revulsion at his theft and taunting trade though rained down over him instead.


The glue was a home-made (obviously) recipe, to make rid of the overspill from his vast animal carcass collection. Bones were bared of hide and hair, of meat for a meal and then of all else that could be boiled loose thereafter. Most often the glue found it’s way into Bryony’s ‘elixirs. Tooth whitening gel was a particular favourite, so that the customer was instructed to balm his gnashers well, and hold a smile for an hour so that the ‘magic’ would work. What really occurred was an orthodontic disaster and the poor bamboozled ‘customer’ would be ill equipped to protest or voice sense of any complaint that he tried to make.


Sully was fortunate that the gloop had not been heat up overlong. Though a shower complete with gristle and bone was not the reaction he’d been hoping on. Bryony was quick, and smart enough to make herself scarce after this initial flare of temper. Her husband was up on both feet like a shot, his knuckles blanched white around the knives he still held. One in either hand. Rage saw each dashed into an opposing wooden wall, as the giant man turned left, then right, on pure adrenalin. Tearing at his shirt at either side of the stitched buttons, he tore it in two and dashed the remnants to the ground, stamping upon it with one foot as though he could put out the fire that had been lit in his skin.



Outside an accompanying cry rang out, as though in response. Bryony. Sully lowered himself into his seat, almost, before wondering if the shriek meant his wife had found Claire Willows on his very doorstep. He had, after all, heard someone outside before ever the eruption. Held to his height and headed outside instead. Drawing back one hand through a curtain of hanging chains and animal traps, Sully scanned the scene from his stand on the blood-stained porch. There was no sign of Claire or Bryony, and he could only suppose that his dear wife had set off into town to have ‘words’ with her ‘romantic rival’. What there was though … was something he had not been expecting.


A girl (Brooke). She did not seem to be creeping up on his cottage, but rather having trespassed quite by mistake. The slight figure seemed not bolstered by some indignation nor scared enough to know better and run clear away. It was not an approach that the man had seen before. Intrigued, he stared across the icy surround, eyes trained on this little fawn of a thing who was either lost or some version of lunatic. He did not see the spy whom he had overheard for some time (Clay), and was rather surprised at how long the girl was taking to reach him. Had she walked round in circles and in contemplation ? What would bring such a creature out here ?

Like a wolf who questions not the prospect of an unexpected lunch, Sully grinned, all teeth. The state of him from the glue and the bared chest did not even enter his head of whatever she must imagine him up to.

“Lookee here what I see,” he crossed arms across his chest, so that all the chains, dead pheasants, and snap-hungry metal clattered together like leaves caught in a sudden storm, now that he did not hold them aside. “If you’re coming, better come on in.”

The invitation followed him inside, where the door he’d burst through emitted a piercing scream. A warning for Brooke that to do as he said was not a wise idea. But what then would be to refuse him ? The door jutted in the playful jesting that it would swing open, but teetered and shivered just ajar. Not much inside could from this spot be seen. The girl would be forced to go inside. Sully was already retrieving his knives from the scored wooden walls. It would be a treat to chase and hunt her through the trees if she should now run away. After all, he knew where all the traps had been laid. And she was fortunate not to have fallen foul of any yet.

In the bushes Clay ducked down as Brooke had passed his hiding place. The rustle of foliage no doubt yet further fright to alarm the anxious young girl.

[Rillewen]

@Ercassie

Brooke Willows
Heading toward the Spruce residence

The sudden screech of the door froze Brooke in her tracks, after she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her heart seemed to leap up into her throat when she heard the man speak, and she stared across thre yard at him like a startled deer. Already halfway across the clearing, she could not merely duck behind a tree. She was out in the open. Perhaps she could run back home and just tell Claire she gave him the letter?

But she knew better than that. Swallowing, she fought the urge to flee. She drew a shaky breath, preparing to try and explain her purpose for coming, before she could be ordered off the property. She'd hastily explain that she was delivering a letter, thrust it into the man's hands and then make her exit as swiftly as she could. That's how she planned it in her head, anyway. Her mind began sorting out exactly what she'd say, picking just the right words to make it brief but properly explaining her purpose, then excusing herself to complete her other errands. Easier planned than carried out, however. Especially when he made some comment about coming inside and then vanished within the house, as if he actually expected her to follow!

Eyes wide, the girl stood very still, right where she was, for what felt like ages. Her heart was racing, her mind going over a million possible reasons why she should never have come here, why she should not go a step nearer, and why she should leave right now. An inward battle raged between one half of her mind telling her to flee as fast as she could go, and get as far away as she could, and the other half telling her to go quickly and shove the letter at the man and then leave, so that she could say her task was complete. She wouldn't be getting supper until it was, she knew. But it wasn't that thought that drove her onward. Only one thing accomplished that; the thought of getting her book back safely.

Brown eyes closed tightly for a few seconds as Brooke realized that she felt almost lightheaded. Her throat felt tight, and she thought she might start coughing if this kept up. The cold air seemed to make it more difficult to draw in air, too. 'Breathe, Brooke, breathe.' She reminded herself, for she could tell that she needed to get control of her breathing again, which happened at times. At last, her steps forward continued, albeit slowly, tentatively. She felt very shaky, but she couldn't tell whether it was from cold, or trembling with fear, or just shaky from lack of food, seeing as she'd had nought but a handful of chestnuts all day. The girl found her gaze locked upon the dead birds and deer and evidence of other creatures who had met their fate here. They did not make her feel any better at all.

Stopping at last on the porch, Brooke hesitated before knocking lightly on the door frame. Obviously, he already knew she was there. But it was only polite, to knock. The letter was already in her other hand, having absently dug it out from her bag as she made her way onto the porch. She absolutely refused to step past that doorway. Who knows what horrors might lie inside, and she did not consider herself stupid enough to knowingly walk into anyplace where she might be trapped. Now, if she could only manage to deliver her mentally-practiced explanation and make her hasty retreat.

"I.." The single word was so soft she knew it would not carry past the doorway, so she cleared her throat and tried again. "U-um, I... s-sorry but..this is.." she couldn't help inwardly cringing at her stumbling over the sentence. So much for that speech she intended to give. "Claire..sh-she sent it.. it's for you, sir." She finally got out, hoping that he heard that at least. If she could just say the things she planned to say... if she didn't get all tongue-tied and nervous and jumbled up when she tried to talk, maybe she wouldn't be such a total failure at everything. Maybe she wouldn't be so useless, and feel like an idiot so often. Maybe she could actually gain a little confidence, but how could she when she was always messing something up, or couldn't think of the words she wanted to use when she wanted to use them?

Trying not to show any outward sign of her frustration at her own inability and such, Brooke stood awkwardly at the door, hoping that Mr Spuce would just come to the door and that this would be an extremely brief exchange. The letter was held out toward the gap between the door and its frame, her cold hand trembling slightly. There was no need for her to go in if he'd just take the letter and let her go. She really did not want to be there when he read whatever Claire's letter was... probably a bill or some such thing, like Henley's had been. She had a feeling that Sully Spruce would react more violently than the drunken barber had done, and she had no desire to be the recipient of his anger.

[Ercassie]

Sullivan 'Sully' Spruce,
baiting Brooke @Rillewen
at Witchwood Cottage, Archet

A tapping at the door frame. Sully didn’t flick a glance from where he had found a new shirt. ‘New’ might be misleading as to it’s description, since he had plucked it up from the heap sat on a chair. Still it was warm, like a logger’s flannel which occurred to him as more important than how he should look. He left the wet remains of his torn shirt still upon the floor, directing it with one booted foot to mop the glue gloop until he saw how much more work would have to clean it.

The girl did not venture in.

Tugging his hands through his dark hair, the tanner removed a piece of gristle and flung it across the room into the emptied pot. It landed with a clang, which rang over part of what the girl was saying, outside. “You’re gonna have to do better at that,” the Man decided. Drawing a knife up he flung it at the front door, where it embedded in the wood. The depth ensured that it’s point would show through the quivering outside. To make his point. Literally. “If you ain’t right itching for me to come fetch you in here myself, girl ? ” the threat didn’t provide an alternative. “I don’t think you’d like that,” Sully muttered, not at all to himself.

[Rillewen]

Brooke Willows
Entering Witchwood Cottage, reluctantly

A clang sounded right about the time she had tried to speak. Brooke flinched a little at the noise, and bit her lip. She fidgeted, shifting awkwardly. The man spoke, saying something about... she didn't do good enough? Why didn't that surprise her? She never did anything good enough, apparently. With a sinking feeling, she began trying to think of a better way to put it, when something thudded loudly into the door in front of her. Brooke jumped back, startled.

Staring at the sharp point that protruded from the wood, she wondered if the man inside were, in fact, crazy. Her heart hammered wildly as she struggled to calm herself, but it was a hard task. 'He's going to kill me,' She thought in panic. It took all her willpower to keep from fleeing as fast as she could. Which was not very fast, and she knew it. That thought helped keep her feet planted where they were. He would outrun her in no time, if he had a notion to.

Standing frozen in place, the girl wondered what she was to do. She wanted to get as far from here as she could go, but she was stuck now. She tried to remember why she hadn't just told Claire she'd delivered the letter and been done with it. Also, what would happen to her books if she were murdered here? Claire might sell them! Or they might sit in her room, closed off from the world until they'd rotted. Or worse, Claire might decide to use them for fuel in the fire! How awful would that be! Amid the swirl of such thoughts, it also occurred to her to wonder what her newfound friend, Aislin, might do if Brooke were killed. Would she find out? Would she miss her? Would it even bother the girl, seeing as they barely knew each other?

Somehow, through the various panicked thoughts racing through her head, and through the pounding of her heart in her ears, she managed to register what Mr Spruce had said next, after the knife-throwing incident. That if she didn't come inside, he'd fetch her in himself if she didn't come in voluntarily. Drag her in, more likely. That made her shudder a little.

What a dilemma. Brooke had never held any hatred for anyone, no matter what they may have done. She disliked several people, some stronger than others. She was afraid of, and avoided others, but did not hate them. Despite that, she felt sure that if there was ever any person whom she ever did hate, that person would be her stepmother. It was Claire who had sent her here. Claire knew what Sully was like. She knew that Brooke was terrified of people like him, and that she did her best to stay well away from such people. She did this on purpose, she must have. 'She wants him to kill me," She thought, distressed by the thought. 'He will, too. I'm sure he will!'

For the next couple of seconds, Brooke could only stand silently, eyes squeezed shut as she did her best to regain some semblance of calm. At last she opened them, took a shaky, deep breath, and tentatively nudged the door open, maybe an inch. Enough to take a timid peek inside. If she was going to go in there, she wanted it to be her own choice, and not be dragged in against her will.

One mostly-numb hand held her blanket closed around her, like a shawl, while the other trembling hand, clutching the letter, pushed the door a little bit more. Pausing to delay as long as possible, she coughed into the blanket briefly. The cold air was making her feel cough-y and she wanted to just go curl up in her room with her blanket.

As she reluctantly stepped across the doorway, tense and wishing she were elsewhere, warm air greeted her. The only good thing about going inside. Though she knew it was probably in poor manners, Brooke did not close the door as she entered. She couldn't stand to shut off any chance of escape, even if it would be futile to try. She hated feeling trapped, and hated that she'd had to come inside where she would feel trapped. Perhaps he knew that, somehow. She still couldn't shake the feeling he was going to kill her, though she didn't know why he'd have any reason to... she'd never done anything to him!

At last inside, and now even more nervous than before, she glanced around, wanting to know where the man might be. Her gaze landed on a horrible mutation of a squirrel with a serpent's tail. She blinked, staring at this in some alarm before it registered that this was not a living creature. At least, not anymore. Someone (she guessed Sully) had done that to the poor dead squirrel. And to the snake. The sight made her a little sick. Judging from the direction his voice had come from, she looked that way, doing her best to avoid looking at anymore of the similar creatures within the small cabin. There he was, and thankfully, wearing a shirt now.

If she could only deliver that hasty, practiced explanation now, and give him the letter, maybe he'd let her leave. She really hoped not to be around when he learned..whatever it was Claire had in that letter. She guessed it to be bad news for him, and he certainly seemed the type to take his anger out on the messenger of bad news, rather than the origin of it. Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst, she tried again. "I... I have a letter for you, sir..." She was aware her voice was barely above a whisper, but it was difficult to manage much more with how nervous she felt. She softly cleared her throat. "From Claire... Claire Willows." She offered it out in a slightly shaky hand, hoping he'd take it. "A...and... I'm expected back quickly..." She added timidly. Maybe that would help something...


@Ercassie @Pele Alarion

[Ercassie]

Sullivan 'Sully' Spruce
Inside Witchwood Cottage, Archet
appraising Brooke @Rillewen

The door fell aside beneath a gentle hand, but if the girl hoped to enter quietly, she ought to have recognised that this was not a place where hope would tarry overlong ! The ancient hinges dragged not unlike nails along glass, and though light should have spilt into the small cottage, still the tanner loitered in the furthest corner. He was hankering on lapping up her full arrival, each small nervous step, each tiny apprehensive piece of progress. Progress ? That might be a mismatched word to describe what was happening. For rather it must seem the hapless young thing was coming to her doom, more so with each shift and stutter. Sully revelled in her reactions to his home, his 'masterpieces'. There was still more than a little gristle scattered on the floor, much less the now-ruined shirt. The girl stopped her shuffling mere inches from this last, as though it was some boundary she feared to cross. But it was too late for that now. The door may not have crashed to a close behind her, but the girl could not leave nonetheless.

If she had been so able, Sully considered, she would have left so already. The letter, from Claire Willows, was brandished in one shaking hand, as though it might stand a shield, although in truth it seemed just as feeble as a broken wing. And she the flightless bird.



"Well now," the vast man now idly rounded the chair which he'd shadowed. Lowering into it's charms, he notched one booted foot against the table that separated them. Leaning back, he rocked pretty precarious on the hind legs of his seat. A toothpick twirled and writhed in one side of the man's jaw, as though it were some miniscule victim, squirming against all odds to escape. "Ain't that just a thing ?" It was not a question which required a right answer. A slight tilt of the head, and Mr Spruce continued, drawing his gaze over what little there was of the scrawny creature. "A right good favour of a thing, I'd say," he continued. "You came … all … the … way … out …. here ?"

It was not by chance that he sprawled his sentence out, so to emphasise the length … of quite how far she must have come from town. A grin clamped the toothpick in a smile which was not designed for comfort.



"Why, but Claire lives right far from here," he added, to hammer home his point, and the girl's peril. Sully dropped the front legs of his chair and peered around the foot which presented it's underlying filth up to be seen. "I can't honestly believe she would be too sore if you weren't back right quick .." he proposed, in all apparence, friendly-like. Still, there was an element of threat about the concept.

That the girl was far … from anything remotely resembling her home. And no one would truly expect her back … soon. Maybe not at all ..



"What do you think ?" he eased his foot from the table top, towing off much of the work which he'd been tasked to before she arrived, all to the floor. And never seemed like it was as much interest to him, as her curious visit. "Come. Sit" he added, quietly. And all the more pronounced despite this. Eyes flicked from Brooke's face, to the seat waiting her. And a subtle but sure lick of the tanner's tongue, motioned her to move, quick. Like a master calls his dog …

[Pele Alarion]

Aislin
Somewhere near Witchwood Cottage
@Ercassie, @Rillewen

The girl stood in the shop for a while, clutching the dress she had received from Brooke close to her chest. Not quite sure how to express her thanks, she hesitated, and meanwhile her new friend had already left. For a few moments more she was indecisive: the warmth of the shop seemed so welcoming, yet Brooke's attitude seemed to suggest that she was about to head into some sort of danger.

Pursing her lips in determination, she hastily stowed away all her new belongings into her pack. It had never been so full before, and Aislin could feel the straps pulling her shoulders back. With a smile and a polite word of farewell to Mr Tunnely, she rushed out into the cold. It took her a while to spot Brooke already a long way ahead, and she realised that all she could do for now was to follow her new friend, as it would be difficult to catch up with the weight of belongings on her back.

She walked after Brooke quite openly, until they seemed to approach some habitation in the midst of wooded area. Angry screams sent her friend into the cover of the trees, and Aislin followed suit. Now she could rather well imagine why Brooke would have rather left her behind and why there was fear.

After this now, the inquisitive girl did not dare to come out on the path again and continued sneaking from one tree to another in the general direction her friend had gone. Focussing her attention some ways ahead, she almost walked into Clay. With a startled cry she stepped back, tripping over her own feet and falling on her bum onto the cold ground. Her eyes round as saucers she wondered what danger she had now stepped into.

[Ercassie]

Clayton 'Clay' Dogwood
Outside Witchwood Cottage
Spying on Brooke, meeting Aislin
@Rillewen @Pele Alarion

It was not unheard of that robbers lived in these dark woods, and it could be said that the young man was robbed of his good sense in coming here. The four other senses though he held, thus far, and so spied out the stranger (Brooke) advancing and then entering the Cottage. She had been 'invited' inside, after all. Sully did not seem opposed to her intrusion, any more than she seemed keen to oblige him. Still, a person didn't come all the way out to Archet without some sort of intention. Clay knew more than he cared to admit on that score.

Stalking the strange girl was something rather less scary than sneaking upon the tanner, so that the youth had more mind to what they were plotting, and less care to how he made his own approach. Whereas the well-used paths and roads in Breetown had worn the snow to thin ice, here where the sun scarcely penetrated through the hooded forest, here the snow was ankle deep at least. Every step that he had took forward, Clay had taken care to turn and cover up his tracks behind him. Now he could not even see which way he'd come. Neither did he notice yet that another girl (Aislin) had come upon the scene, for he was straining to hear what passed for words between the tanner and his guest. Too far away to perceive the knife which Sully had flung at the door, he would only have been more intrigued to note that the girl then went inside ! As it was, he could only assume she was an acquaintance of the man. And there being only the one way to find out more, he crept through the undergrowth, pursuing his quarry, until a sound right close by caught him into a frozen halt.



A cry and a swaddled thump brought the other, smaller, girl out of the treeline, to where she sat, staring up at him from the cold ground. Raising a lone finger to his lips, Clay meant to hiss a 'Shhhhh' to still Aislin, before she called out again. But a swift glance at the cottage door showed no hasty emergence of either of the two within. Surely they were still that far away. Holding out his empty hand, the cobbler's son prepared to hoist the stranger upright, but in stepping forward, his own eyes grew wide as hers in horror all his own.

A snap and a crack signalled too late the rush of steel jaws, and the animal trap closed around the young man's ankle. Lips white, he then broke them apart in a series of small panting, and dropped with no thought now toward caution, into the same wet slush beside Aislin. Luckily his father made good boots, and his flesh was safer than it might have been from the sharp claws of Sully's toy. But still shock set in like a waterfall of frost, and he clutched the snagged limb in both hands, as darkest garnet teardrops fell from the wound to stain the snow.

[Rillewen]

@Ercassie @Pele Alarion

Brooke
Inside Witchwood Cottage

The screeching of the door made Brooke wince. Not only did it hurt her ears, but the sound itself was both awful and startling, making her freeze in her tracks for a moment. Being the sort who always tried to make as little noise as possible, trying to avoid being noticed or calling attention to herself, it pained her slightly to have the door announce her entry so noisily. He really ought to put some oil or grease on those hinges... it wasn't as if he were short of supply of such things around here. As she entered, she couldn't help eyeing the mess on the floor, wondering what in the world that might be, or what it once was.

The moment the man spoke, breaking the short silence, Brooke jumped slightly, her gaze snapping back to him. Watching him as he leaned the poor chair on its back legs, she couldn't help wondering how he'd react were those legs to snap under his weight. That wood looked awfully thin compared to how much he must weigh. He ought to be more careful, she thought, almost holding her breath. He'd be angry, she was sure, and might take it out on her.

"Ain't that just a thing... A right good favour of a thing, I'd say," he commented.

Brooke fidgeted under his gaze, her hand nervously tightening on her blanket-shawl. What did he mean by that? She wished he'd stop staring at her. The mention of Claire living far from here told Brooke that the man must know exactly who she was, and that she lived in the same house as Claire. Somehow that made her more nervous. She wished no one knew she was in any way attached to that woman.

There was a slight sense of relief, mixed with new anxiety, as Sully's chair returned to all four legs. At least it was in less danger of breaking beneath him, but now he was that much closer to standing up. What if he did? She preferred him sitting, but then, she also preferred to be far from here. If only she hadn't had to bring him this letter. Why was she so stupid as to actually do it? That reminded her of her book, and why she'd come this far. But why did it have to involve all this?

There really should be some sort of boxes for mail, stationed at the edge of every person's property, she decided. Then she could've just stuffed it in there and never had to go all the way to his door. She could've been on her way home by now. Home, if that's what one could call it anyway. Still, it was the only home she had, or had ever known, and she would be worse off to try and leave, she was sure.

These and other thoughts raced through her mind as she stared back at the tanner, her face pale, as her wide brown eyes watched him. What did he intend to do with her? Why did he insist on her coming inside, and then would not take the letter she had offered out to him? Her hand had lowered slightly by now, but still held the letter.

"What do you think?" The question was asked, but what he had said before that she had sort of missed, being so absorbed in thoughts of a box for mail that would have prevented her from being in this situation. What did he say? She frantically thought back. Something about how she wouldn't be missed at home, she thought he'd said. He was exactly right in that, and she knew it. No one would miss her at all. They'd probably even be glad if she never returned. That was not a comforting thought.

The clatter of grotesquely carved bones with sharpened points, and the tools that had been used to do such things, falling to the floor was nearly as frightening as the quiet command for her to sit. She flinched slightly at the noise, and took one tiny, nervous step back from him. Sit? He wanted her to sit with him?! She just wanted to run from here as fast as she could go, and get as far from him and his house as possible. She'd go all the way to Gondor if she could! There was no way she was going to take a seat in here. Besides that, it occurred to her that if she did as he said, then he might expect her to obey everything he ordered her to do. Some part of her mind told her that was not a good thing, and she shouldn't let that happen.

Besides that, the place was too closed up for her liking. Though the door stood partly open, Brooke was beginning to feel smothered. She could hardly breathe. Was it too hot? The warmth had felt nice when she stepped in, but now, with the door still open and letting quite a large draft of icy air in, it seemed hardly likely that it could be too hot in there. Still, she felt like her chest was tightening, her breathing was more difficult and her heart was racing. A feeling of desperation, an overpowering need to get outside, came over her, drowning out all else. 'I must get out of here!' She thought, unable to suppress her panic this time.

If Sully wanted her to move quickly, then he was not to be disappointed, for quickly she did move... though not in the direction he intended. The table was just near enough to drop the letter on it. Once freed from her duty to deliver that letter, Brooke made a break for the door... toward freedom. Though it was freezing outside, the cold air had a welcoming aspect to it at this moment. Surely, anything was better than being trapped in that cabin!

It seemed at the moment that all she had to do was make it across the threshold, and she would be free. Though, rational thought would have pointed out that she would have to get all the way to her father's house before she was anything close to 'safe', and it was a long way through the forest. But the overwhelming panic had taken rational thought from her for the time being. The door was not far away, and stood open to provide her a means of escape. If she could only get past the door...

[Pele Alarion]

Aislin
Near Witchwood Cottage with Clay
@Ercassie, @Rillewen

Aislin could not help but watch each move Clay made, and she wanted to escape but the fear paralysed her. All she could do was sit there and blink; and when he took a step forward, she flinched, half expecting him to lash out at her. Yet, when he extended his hand towards her, she began to believe that he might not intend to harm her.

Just as she debated responding to him and reaching out, the young man was caught up in a trap. Momentarily a thought flashed in her mind that it could have been her to step into it, but the thought left as soon as it came. As they both now sat next to each other, Aislin finally got over her fear enough to feel a trace of care about this stranger, seeing that the trap had injured him.

"Hey..." she began hesitantly, in a quiet voice. "Perhaps I can help you somehow?"

Not that she really knew much beyond placing a bandage on the wound, and she did not have many supplies. Perhaps she should place a lot of snow around Clay's foot? At any rate it did not seem to bleed that much...

[Ercassie]

Sullivan ‘Sully’ Spruce
in Witchwood Cottage. Harassing Brooke
@Rillewen

The entirety of time that Brooke had considered her chances of escape, the wind had leaned upon that wooden door, seeing in draw in a little, then retch out a little, as though the whole building was releasing a relentless but equally ragged breath.

The wail of the weather beyond was of course some reminder that life existed beyond the confines of the small cabin, and that might have given the girl hope, but even the screeching of protesting hinges had not been oiled .. on purpose. Sully was quite unaware that Brooke had disapproved of the door’s state, but neither did she know that it was all part of a primeval alarm system. In case anybody ever tried to sneak inside his home without his knowledge. There was of course another integral part of this crude security system, and that was the man himself. The tanner’s talent with throwing knives had not simply been honed by target practice at his wife, although she had grown used to living with such antics. It was what had allowed him to eat, out in the wild. Not that being handy with sharp tools had not proven quite advantageous with his new career here either. Which was all to say that his ‘guest’ ought to have recalled that he threw a knife at the door earlier.


She was lucky that it was something else flung, this time, although ‘lucky’ might have been a stretch of the truth. In the same moment that Brooke had leant quick forth to drop Claire’s correspondence, it so happened that Sully had leant toward one ankle, to resolve an itch. So it was that he was close at hand to seize a piece up of the firewood, with his hand closest to the floor. This hurtled across the room, aimed at the back of Brooke’s head, while he stretched idly out with one leg. The chair opposite him, which he had invited her to sit in, was shuddered by the impact out from under the table, and raced the girl to the door. It came to a close thing, but the wind was eased out and the door slammed it’s final inches like a sullen adolescent in response.


Whether BrookeB was in any fit state to now be delayed by the obstacle remained to be seen. Could be that the small log had struck her in the back and merely injured her. Might be that she had dodged it’s path and taken a small diversion to find a chair waited now blocking the door. Or perhaps Sully’s wildest dreams had been accomplished, and the blow had struck the flighty thing about the head and dropped her (he had quite an arm and rarely held back, for where was the fun in that ?) to the ground where she’d have a groaning headache. Such things have been known to daze prey, so that the hunter can saunter over in his own time, grasp it by the hind legs and raise it over his shoulder, claimed his own.


Sully was in no rush to conclude the rather entertaining show of a thing, and had learned that sometimes slow and steady and unceasing can be more unsettling to his foe than would an effective rush. He knew these woods like the back of his hand, and he knew where she lived. There would be no escape for Brooke until he allowed it. For now, he pushed out his chair, flipped his remaining knife from the table in one hand, playfully, and wandered over in her wake and in his own good time.

Clayton ‘Clay’ Dogwood
Outside the cottage, hidden with Aislin
@Pele Alarion

The last time he had been forced to one knee, Clay had proudly asked to wed sweet Amber Finch. The farmer’s daughter had girlishly insisted after his first invitation, that he try again, on one knee. This time, as that time, there was a girl at hand, but that was about as far as the similarities went. His safe leg was sinking into the calm soothing snow, and growing wetter by the minute, but he scarcely even registered this fact. The other leg was folded at the knee so that the ankle was upright, but all above that was slumped down, his behind also sunk amongst the wintery carpet.

He had never seen this girl before, and his head was an ocean of swimming questions. The most pressing of these was how not to shout at the top of his lungs, for the pain was quite determinedly brewing in him like a pot of tea. But the most determined of these questions was what ought he to do to reduce the hurt, and the helplessness. Neither were convenient. Both were just about ready to see him bawl, which would undoubtedly make things far worse. The last thing he needed was to let the dratted Tanner have his way. Thankfully Aislin did not only seem eager to help, but also, was quite quiet in her efforts. He was more thankful for the second of these, as true manly-ness dictated that he ought in fact to try and prove that he was fine and fit. Which was not quite the case.

Instinct nonetheless saw the young man try quite determinedly to prise the firm steel jaws of the metal trap apart, one hand on each side of his leg. This seemed for a small time to be having the desired effect, if he leaned down with enough exertion, but just as he believed himself to be making some progress, the cabin door slammed shut, quite loudly and quite close. Or close enough to startle the young man, and have his fingers slip. The cruel device jerked back with a spring to take a new bite out of his ankle, and a curse broke from Clay’s lips, even as he dropped his head to near bury it in the snow. Which was when he noticed something. Glancing around and separating snow with his hands, the off-duty constable wondered if he might fare better to dig out the chain which held the trap into the ground. In case there might be a need to run. But the thought of even trying to run in this state seemed silly, and letting the girl help out seemed to make far more sense.


“Hey,” he returned in kind, tipping his head back from where he’d focused on his efforts, to better appraise her, and also to keep the tear from forming and/or falling. In case she might see. “Maybe you can try to pull that side of it out from my leg, toward you, with both your hands, while I pull at this other side with my hands” There was little time to think through every consequence, and time was of the essence here. “I’ll just slip my foot out then when the thing has a wide enough gap around it. Ready ?”

It sounded easy enough. He hoped it proved so also.

He wasn’t quite sure if he was ready, but he couldn’t just sit here all night. The young man’s brown eyes hoped that the strange girl was stronger than she looked, but at least two heads, that was four hands, were better than one head, and two hands.

“Just !” he added, as a panicked afterthought, “Try not to lose your grip. Like I just did.” He couldn’t help but mention, though he left out how much he had hurt by failing the first time. “Ready ?" Courtesy suggested that he should at least ask her name, but he didn’t really want to distract her from the task quite yet. That sort of thing would hopefully keep them both from panicking in just a moment. It will just take a moment, he told himself. And braced to try again. This time with help hopefully.

[Pele Alarion]

Aislin
In the woods, trying to help Clay @Ercassie

She watched Clay's attempts at getting his foot free, and had to wince, though it was not clear whether she did it at seeing the repeated attack of the trap, or because of the slamming door of the cabin. Regardless, Aislin's thoughts were now split.

What if Brooke really needed help now? She must have entered that cabin, and then there was no knowing of what would take place next, if there was no intervention. And yet, she could not just leave the young man caught up in the trap as he was. Perhaps he could even help later? Though if his leg was now damaged...

A thoughtful frown appeared on Aislin's face, as she looked down at Clay and tried to make a decision. Eventually, she stepped closer and went down on her knees next to him, inspecting the steely trap for a few moments. "I can try to pull it," she agreed, though it had seemed from his own attempts before that it might not be all that easy. And what if the trap suddenly caught her? She hesitated a few more moments, but then cautiously took a hold of thing.

"Ready!" she responded; and ready she was to apply all the strength that she had.

[Rillewen]

Brooke Willows
Inside Witchwood Cottage

It wasn't the smartest decision to rush for the door, but when one is in a panic, smart decisions tend to get tossed out the window. Brooke was desperate to get outside again, no matter how cold it was out there. She couldn't stay inside. So she made her dash for the door, which of course went very badly. She was nearly within reach of the door when the small log struck her across the back of the shoulders, refreshing some previous bruises which had partially healed. The door slammed shut, due to the chair that had come flying across the floor. At the same time, her foot slipped on the mess left in the floor and she went down to the floor with a little yelp of pain.

She had no idea what had hit her, but she seemed to still be alive, despite how much her shoulder blades and back hurt. One hand reached to feel the most painful spot, instinctively, and winced. Seconds later, she realized he was coming toward her and hastily tried to scramble up to her feet. Unfortunately, one of her feet had become entangled in the hem of her dress, and her efforts to get up were in vain. Brooke knew now that her attempted escape had been a really bad idea. All that it had done was apparently encourage him to pursue her, and possibly anger him. But what did he want?

She was shaking, and didn't know whether it was from cold or fear. She still felt stifled, but not with heat. Each breath seemed like a struggle, and all she could do was try and force herself to calm down, take slow and steady breaths and try to push the panic away. She coughed a few times, and for a moment she feared that she would begin coughing until she couldn't get her breath. Thankfully, she managed to get control of herself once again, and then turned, watching him approach her. He had a knife in his hand. What was he going to do with that? Her gaze fixed on the knife for a moment, her breath catching in her throat for a moment before she remembered to breathe. In.. out.. slow, steady.

Staring at Mr Spruce, Brooke forced her eyes to ignore the knife, moving to stare at his face, instead. She was trying to decide if his face showed whether he planned to murder her or just frighten her. Not that she was any good at gauging such things, but keeping her mind occupied might help keep her from slipping into mindless panic again. She had learned from that mistake, at least, and knew how badly things can go wrong when panic takes over.

"Wh-what are you g-going to do?" Her voice sounded tiny, shaky, and frightened. It sort of slipped out before she had taken the time to analyze if she ought to speak, or decide on what to say, or if she would be better off to keep quiet. Brooke swallowed and tried very hard to look even remotely brave, though she knew she was anything but. If only she could be more like her mother; Cassandra had always stood up for herself and defied fear, or so it seemed to Brooke as a child... and Brooke couldn't even get to her feet. She couldn't even get her breath, for the fear that had gripped her. Left with nothing to do but to watch her soon-to-be murderer coming closer and closer to her, knife in hand, all the girl could manage to do was to try and keep the fear from showing on her face, trying to give the false impression that she wasn't afraid... though she very much doubted as to how convincing it might be.

@Ercassie

[Ercassie]

Sullivan Spruce
with Brooke, in Witchwood Cottage, Archet
@Rillewen

He took his time in crossing the small expanse of the open-plan room. Standing on just one foot, then the other, as though he were balancing on stepping stones across a lake. In truth he was toying. The tanner brought each foot down with an almighty thud, which doubtless must have sounded like a thunderclap to the girl floundering upon his floorboards. One foot kicked the offending log out of reach, soon as ever he had come close to it. To ensure that Brooke did not pick it up (if she could. She looked a feeble thing) and try to wield it. At the last possible moment, he glanced down as though regretfully as the log rolled away. It might have been amusing to see her try …


But here she twitched and fluttered, caught up in her own gown, looking to the Man as though she was one of them butterflies, pinned to a frame, and still wondering if it might fly away. She might indeed, if she got caught up by that frigid wind outside. But thankfully a chair stood worthy barricade to discourage her trying to leave .. again.

The girl was shaking and struggling to breathe in such a way that he hardly felt he was owed full credit, which was not to say he would not seize it still. There was no other about which could have scared her so after all. It seemed almost as though he needed do naught but exist, and she cowered. Halting where he stood now towering over his ‘guest’, Sully scratched his stubbled jaw with his knife, contemplative.


“What is it I want with you ?” he wondered of her question, as though it had not occurred to him until now of the options. Small speckles of shaved hair dusted Brooke as her tormentor stalled, and kicked at her legs with his large right foot; the motion meant to turn her one way and then the other, as he might inspect what she in fact was. The grime of his boot lined her dress with who knew what but it looked like mud. The Breeman made a good show of wiping most of the caked mess onto her clothes. As though she were a doormat. As though he even owned a doormat. The thought occurred to him now that he might get himself a doormat … then again, maybe he already had ..

“You was the one who traipsed all the ways out here, to me, girl,” he reminded Brooke. “For what you would have of me. A right favour indeed, I’ve no doubt. And whatever your Ma wants of me, how’m I to give an answer if you don’t wait around for it ? Eh ? You expect me to walk all the way out to Staddle and back after, when we both know you’re fixed to flee back that way yourself ? Or were you gonna get back there, only to turn round and come trotting out here all again ? Makes no sense at all, girl. What are you ? Some kind of stupid ?”


He gave every indication that he expected some answer from Brooke, even as he made his mind up that he could care less for any excuse she could muster. Therefore, without any warning save for being him, Sully dropped one hulking arm and took up a handful of the girl’s dark hair held fast between his fingers. Swinging it behind him, the tanner dragged his new toy back away from any notion of the door, as though she were a sack of squalling kittens to the river, or perhaps a felled beast he had maimed and meant to stuff.


Leaving her down in the dirt, the Breeman found his seat back at the table, and kicked up one foot to gauge how clean he’d wiped it’s leather skin. “That’s what I thought,” Sully took up, decisively, where he’d left off, irrespective of whether the ailing little thing could bring herself to cough up a complaint at how he treated her. “So why don’t you sit your bony behind down there while I look over what you’ve got for ‘ole Sully, eh ?”


He gave it a moment before fixing the girl a menacing stare. “Well give me the blasted letter then !” he stormed, as though she was being belligerent by dawdling. “In fact,” planting his knife to rest in his mouth, blade precarious along his tongue, the tanner’s tone grew no more amiable as he blew a sigh out of his nose and acted hard done by. “while you’re dust idling down there, you might think of cleaning that mess about the floor,” he suggested, none too clearly, although he would dearly love for her to question his say-so. “Since you’ve naught else to do with your time but eyeball me ..”


Again, he carried on as though the girl was the one being quite unreasonable. “I’d wager your Mama needs something real bad from me, to send you all this way …” he appeared to muse at this last. Although it could be argued that Sully had put thought to quite how desperate he could see the girl to comply with his every wish …

Clayton ‘Clay’ Dogwood, stuck
with Aislin, outside Witchwood Cottage, Archet
@Pele Alarion

It was either blood or sweat running down his ankle, and Clay had no means of telling which. There was only the one way to remedy the situation, and thankfully this time he was not the only one working to ensure it. Memory of the pain made him count past three, even when he knew he could not count far past a dozen. Still he hesitated, until he saw the resolute expression on the girl’s face. If she could be so brave, then he must.

Ready they were. And pull they did. And though he did not feel entirely ready, he lifted his quivering limb out of the metal clasp. It was slow at first, and it hurt. As the steel teeth pulled free of his ragged skin, this time he was quite certain it was blood inside his boot. But the bone was not broken. The leather had bourne much of the blow. And as he turned to manoeuvre his leg safely out of harm, his hold on the cruel device began to waiver.


“Ok. Let it ..” he had already done so before ever he said the word ‘go’. And collapsed onto his back, with both hands raising the foot high. Gingerly he lowered back to a sitting position, and unlaced his boot. It was more than he could dare to inspect the damage right here and now. It was far too dangerous. So he pulled up his sock, doubled it back down over itself to swell it’s cushion between his hurt and the leather. Then laced it back up as tightly as he was able to stand.

He could stand, just about, if he put his weight upon the unharmed foot, and hovered the harmed one just off the ground. And, this noted, he was left with nothing more to think except ..


“So what should I call my rescuer ?” The hand he held out to her was quickly retrieved though as he puzzled over the odd circumstances. “Do you have a name ? And wait, whatever are you doing out here besides all that ? The guy who lives in that cottage is a ..” The cobbler’s son stopped to throw a thumb back in the direction of Sully’s lair, “He’s a nasty piece of work. You don’t want to set around here long. Though,” he scratched the back of his head with one hand, sheepishly, “I ought say thanks that you were. Or are. I should say we’ve both been lucky enough for one day. You want to head back to town.”


The last sentence was a whisper, which made it seem all the more strange. It was though in honesty because he’d only just remembered to keep quiet, lest the tanner overhear them. Watching at the door of the cottage a moment, the young man poised ready to .. he knew not what .. should the enormous woodsman come barrelling out at them. When this didn’t happen, Clay sighed with a great relief, and supposed that whatever that Willows girl was doing in there, at least she was keeping the dangerous man occupied. “Unless you’re a dangerous sort of girl of course,” he wondered, overly late in the thought.

Taking a step backward, he tried to cover this sudden lack of confidence by wobbling slightly, as though his leg was to blame. “At any rate, I’m Clay,” he explained.

[Ercassie]

Gwandhyra Harion, with his daughter Dessy Hart
Breeland.

There was a crazy comfort to be found in gazing out upon the frozen world, captivated by the clutch of winter, from the relative sanctuary of indoors. Dessy's window afforded her a none too glamorous view over the rooftops of other quite similarly huddled buildings, all decked out along the crooked streets like old men, shuffled deep within their clothes to ward off the worst of the brutal weather. Inside offered the advantage of shelter if not the glowing touch of heat. Some might view the sight of uneven roofslate, wearing ice as though a beard across the line of their ramshackle expanse, as a poor means to conjure up any manner of relief. Yet there were things that might rouse even the most determined sleeper from the throes of eagerly forgetting all their conscious woes. Things outside that made a person shiver, against all want, and accept their fortune in being inside.

The figure that slunk through the street made the girl worry if they might survive until dawn. They battled against the harsh elements, devoutly seeking for something, might be somebody. Dessy hugged the edge of her carefully parted drapes, and raked her gaze over the street beyond. Whatever or whoever was moving there, about the frosted scene, the bracing freeze had not stalled them nor sent them scurrying for refuge. They were for certain tenacious in their efforts. They were dragging something of great bulk and heft behind them, to the point of noticeable effort. Tawny brown eyes strained to better see what it might be ...

Moments later the girl wiped the window pane of warm breath she had spent upon the ungracious glass, by loitering in her intrigue. And as though he caught the motion of her swift waving hand, the hooded stranger raised what must have been an arm in her direction and acknowledgement.

A gasp escaped her as he turned with growing speed toward her hiding place, towing his considerable sled behind him, with dogged enthusiasm. Falling back upon the bed, Dessy startled at the cold from the forsaken covers, bracing as though someone had thrown icy water over it for spite, or jest. She rose with equal speed and slunk around the wooden door that creaked. She had no want to waken Prue and Mossy.


Passing their room, the girl had a care to edge a glimpse within. She found them interlocked in immersing their body heat, smothered in what blankets they possessed so that the rising of day would seem all the more cold when they were forced to depart their makeshift cocoon. The elderly couple slept on, enveloped in dreams of warmth and solace. Dessy persevered with as great an urgency as she dared, given the circumstances. There was yet another obstacle between her and the front door.

Clay had not complained when the family's latest refugee had unwillingly usurped his bedroom. Dessy had been more than willing for the two of them to share the chamber, but Prue lived up to her name and claimed it would not be decent. So the young man spent most nights he did not sleep at Cole's, haphazardly sprawled about his father's ancient armchair. The antique was so well used that it almost bent out straight and induced a pleasant incline for any who languished in it's charms.

Clay was of a habit lately to come in late, given his more wild ventures with the farmer's son that kept him out all hours or, as was the case on this occasion, absolute exhaustion after volunteering to aid Cole herd the driving force of cows from Finch Farm. Primarily a dairy source the number of animals rather dwarfed the small establishment. But Farmer Finch was both a dreamer and a practical entrepreneur. His daughter, Amber and her mother were the resident milking experts, and took great delight in decorating the manes of their meagre numbered horses with fair ribbons. Chasing a bull about a field, on the other hand, without losing your nerve, was rather more a 'Man's role. Or so the ‘Men’ themselves would have folk believe.

Clay had demonstrably earned a full bottle of prime milk and a wedge of cheese for his recent hard labour, for the humble reward yet held pride of place about the scored wooden table. The hearth remained as empty as it had been since food began to take precedence of need, so there was no fear that the cold goods would spoil overnight. As it was, Conkers the cat was snugly nestled about his master's unprotesting stomach, serving rather ably as a living source of warmth.


As she passed her foster brother, Dessy might have sworn that she even observed some beads of not unpleasant sweat upon Clay's brow. So was he shielded from all danger of freezing to death within the largest, and thus coldest room in all the homestead. A draught whistled through the narrow but clearly existent gap beneath the meagre door. Dessy heard the crunch of a firm tread beyond the unconvincing barrier, and swallowed the eruption of adrenalin that coursed the climb of her throat.

Fingerless gloves yet lined her pale hands against the extremes of sheer temperature, but the touch of the cold steel lock did little to dissuade her. Flinging back the door upon it's screaming hinges, she faced the most unexpected caller. Her father unloaded a mountain of furs that utterly swamped her best efforts. She struggled to raise one finger to her lips in warning, and gestured precariously toward the work-weary young BreeMan at hand. Gwandhyra indicated the sled of piled firewood he had brought there with purpose, and together they bore the load to new storage beside the begotten stone grate.

Their errand thus accomplished, the Ranger consumed his only child in the folds of his great cloak. Dessy sank into his familiar scent and the security of his embrace, and lingered there some happy time.