Elendor
A favour for a favour
Frarin's wrist may be broken, but there's nothing wrong with his wits. Whatever did happen to the bandits' loot?
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Trollshaws: Dwarven camp
Game Date: April 3051
IC Time: Night
Description: East Road - Near the Trollshaws
The woods to the north have begun taking over the road, their high branches forming an umbrella that blocks out the stars. Off to the south, more trees are present, completing the canopy overhead. The road is narrow here, the woods looming.
Painfully Obvious Net Trap
Obvious exits:
East and West
==============================================================================
| Yfelwydan Time (YST) |
==============================================================================
** Real time is: Mon Nov 01 15:07:50 2010, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Midnight on a Clear Sunday, Day 30 of April 3051.
Note: It's nighttime out, so it's safe to wander outside.
==============================================================================
[Frarin(#16183)] It is dark here on the road where the trees form a dense canopy above. Yet the night is warm, if slightly damp, and the darkness is broken by a small camp of dwarves. A few fires smoulder, but otherwise the camp is quiet and still, huddled into a small dell beside the road. Several sentries stand watch, but the majority of the camp's occupants seem quite weary, and little surprise. Weeks now has it been since Imladech's attack and, despite the dwarves' scouring of the Trollshaws, they have found nothing to indicate he remains there.
Propped up against a tree, Frarin the silver merchant seems to be dozing off, his eyes flickering open and then shut, as if sleep does not come easily. He arm is still bound in a sling and a patchwork of yellow and purple bruises still mar his face around his broken nose, but he looks far better for wear than he has previously, even if sleep seems to elude him.
No sign of Imladech may have been found, but not all of humankind are so elusive. Just as the sun was setting the man on the pony had appeared, and after some measure of argument the sentries have let him pass. Caring for said pony has taken some time, but now Brev threads his way carefully through the outskirts of the Dwarven camp, watching its occupants warily. He seems to be seeking someone (or someones?) in particular ...
At the sight of Frarin he gives a wordless grunt and moves that way. "How's the wrist?" is the curt greeting given in singsong Common.
[Damlur(#30238)] A shadow moves at the edge of the Dwarven camp, but 'tis nothing terrible no lurking orc waiting to spring or Man looking to kill and rob wealthy Dwarves. No, this shadow is not a shadow at all, but a Dwarf in black armour. Battle-axe strapped to his back, this sable-clad Dwarf seems to be keeping his own watch.
Or, at least, he was. At the approach of Brev, eyes glittering beneath the helm watch the Man and the black-armoured Dwarf makes his way towards them both.
[Frarin(#16183)] Frarin's attempt at slumber steals away at the sound of a voice in front of him and he jerks awake, hand instinctly reaching for the blue war hammer at his side. Yet a second of rapid blinking clears his mind and his vision enough to identify his visitor and the merchant returns Brev's grunt with one of his own. "Still broken, shockingly," he replies, just as curtly, though his own voice is as grumbling as the young man's is singsong. "Where have you been?"
Brev glimpses the dark shadow is out of the corner of his eye, and his right hand slips automatically to his dagger as he sinks to a fighter's half-crouch. "What-" he murmurs - and then said shadow resolves itself into a squat Dwarven figure. Snorting, he turns back to Frarin.
"Easy, now," he murmurs at the sight of the war-hammer. "Seen what those things can do to folk - you're the living proof. And it's supposed to be /mending/," he regards the Dwarf with sourness to match the other's grumpiness. "Which is why I came back. Been at the Sheep-herder's village - working."
[Damlur(#30238)] "Careful, lad," rumbles the sable-clad Dwarf as Brev's hand reaches for his dagger, "I am not some hog to be stuck." He pauses a few paces away from the other two, helm turning to look at Brev directly. "The leaves, or whatever they were, you traded to me seem to have worked their charms. My ribs seem sound once more."
[Frarin(#16183)] "Aye, alright," Frarin admits reluctantly, glancing at his wrist. "So tis mending. Still ain't much use yet though, is it? Fancy working some of that magic of yours on it again? Or am I to be kept waiting by the dreary crawl of time for this thing to heal itself?" He gives a brief nod to Damlur when the sable-clad dwarf approches, but otherwise quiets.
Brev gazes darkly at the faceless helm. "Nor am I wood for the chopping. And Kiern knows, in these parts a man's dead if he doesn't keep a weapon close." The hostility fades slightly at the rest of Damlur's words, and he remarks with a glint in his eye, "Glad to hear I'm some use, after all. You folks heal bloody fast."
At Frarin's speech, the man's mouth twists in a wry grin. "Perhaps. Yes and yes." He crouches down, extends his left arm. "Give me the hand, then." His right hand pulls the dagger from its sheath.
[Damlur(#30238)] "Which would be a concern if I had my axe in hand," rumbles the black-armoured Dwarf before he shrugs his shoulders, mail ringing quietly. "We are hardy," is all the Dwarf says on that matter.
The helm turns, eyes upon Frarin, returning the nod. "I trust your recovery is a smooth one, cousin? That Man seemed to take particular interest in working you with his hammer."
[Nob(#16122)] A slim lad comes through the gathered dwarves, squatting down beside Brev and watching. A new dwarven dagger is strapped to one hip his cloak falls over his crippled arm.
[Frarin(#16183)] "Aye, cousin," says Frarin ruefully to his fellow. "He did at that. I cannot say I can figure that traitor out. Black of heart, yet furious when I told him so to his face. Bah, even if I could not best his hammer, at least my tongue seemed to strike him well enough."
Without a word, Frarin loops his sling over his head and gingerly extends his broken wrist to Brev. As the man withdraws a dagger, the merchant casually remarks, "A good blade, that is. Did you get it to replace your last?"
There is little Brev can say in answer to Damlur, though the flicker of his gaze suggests he's listening for Frarin's response.
"Should cut off the hand, that'd solve all your problems." he quips to Frarin, his swarthy features completely expressionless. Perhaps he's forgotten that in dealings between races, humour is not always appreciated. He supports Frarin's wrist, lifting it so that he can see the stiffness of the fingers, then nods and sets dagger-point to the edge of the bandage. "Needs cut back," he explains. "And the dagger? Had this one since 'fore I was grown. It's not for throwing." The corners of his mouth twitch. "Mind you keep still and don't startle me. Don't want my hand to slip, eh?"
As Gidon squats down besides him, he tosses over his shoulder to Damlur, "Here's the one you should thank for your herbs."
HEALING: Frarin has no critical wounds and you'd categorize his condition as fair.
[Damlur(#30238)] A soft snort comes from within that dark helm, and another shrug comes from the black-armoured Dwarf. "Who can say, with Men? They are contradictory at the best of times." As Brev speaks over his shoulder, the helm turns slightly as the Dwarf looks upon Gidon. "Indeed? I just hope he keeps that dagger well."
[Nob(#16122)] The boy bristles a a little at the implied rebuke, and says stiffly, "Will." His voice is soft and burred. He glances questioningly at Brev as they speak of another man. "Was't...?" he asks, but doesn't finish.
"Well well," Frarin grunts as Gidon joins them. "Young Gidon, isn't it? And back with your friend, after all. And have you two already split the goods that your former bandit friends so ill came by?" There is not anger in his voice so much as sarcasm, spoken as the merchant's brows draw together and a long, knowing look crosses his face. Yet, his eyes narrow at Gidon's broken off comment. "Wasn't what?"
Brev lets out a bark of laughter at Damlur's words. "Men aren't /supposed/ to be easy to figure out," he comments without looking up from his work. "That'd take all the fun out of life."
The dagger keeps on with its careful cutting, irrespective of Frarin's words, and at last he says, "There. You need to be able to move the fingers - so, and so." He demonstrates. "Excercise the hand regularly, don't let them stiffen, else you'll be left a cripple. After another week, you can cut it back again - to here." Only then does he look up. "Think I'd be looking for work if I had riches to spare?" he enquires archly.
At Gidon's query, he looks to the youth and shakes his head, cheek twitching. "I don't think so," he says softly. "They said he had a hammer, not an axe, and the name was different. But if it is, I'll deal with him." His voice is cold. "Somehow."
HEALING: You administer aid to Frarin and think that he looks a little better.
[Nob(#16122)] "Weren't our friends!" Gidon says fiercely. His black brows snap together and he scowls at Frarin. "He could've been killed an' that's what you say?" Dwarves, it is clear, have just gone down in his estimation. And since Brev has answered the question, he doesn't bother to.
[Damlur(#30238)] "See that you do," replies the sable-clad Dwarf to Gidon, "and do not let it rust." That said, he turns his attention back to Frarin and Brev. "You shall have you revenge upon the traitor, cousin," says he to Frarin, "I have no doubt. He cannot dance away from Dwarven steel forever, and then he shall have our wrath in full."
Gleaming eyes beneath the helm look at Gidon once more. "Careful how you speak to Dwarves, lad we do not take abuse so easily as your fellows or the hobbits in Bree."
Frarin says, "Aye, lad, you might like to hold your tongue," Frarin cuts back quickly to Gidon, hardly noticing Brev's reply. "Died, mm? I saw no red kerchief when we sprang our ambush. All I saw was that brute of a leader fall suddenly with a knife in his back, and no sign of your friend here -or- the loaded ponies after." Scrambling with his good hand, he withdraws from a tunic pocket a small knife, which he holds up for both Brev and Gidon to see. "Look familiar? A pretty pair you two make, enlisting the help of the dwarves so as to off the majority of those bandits and then make off with stolen goods.""
Brev glances down at his dagger-blade and wipes it clean on his trews before sheathing it again. "Hush," he murmurs to Gidon. "Words sting less than blades."
At Frarin's accusation he arches one brow and pushes himself to his feet, looking down coolly. "Then you didn't look hard enough. Where would I get a bloody kerchief from? By killing a Shireling and dying a shirt with their blood, maybe?" His tone is dry. Matter-of-factly he continues, "Ponies bolted. My-" he catches himself, "My companion caught them eventually, but they'd shed some of their load. Head to Bree and you'll find a pair of fine ponies now property of the Breeguard. What's kept was earned. Danger money. That answer your questions? Next time you folks want to track down someone you don't like, do it yourself." Almost, he makes as though to step away, but then stops, holding out his left hand again. "And I'll have that knife back, thanks. Healer's fee."
His stance, his tone are kept deliberately casual, but he's poised on the balls of his feet, ready to duck should Frarin take that request too literally. Brev's not the trusting type.
[Nob(#16122)] Gidon's mouth is open to speak, his eyes hot, but he catches Brev's word and subsides, though he yet glowers at the dwarf. And he can't quite keep from muttering, "I never either."
[Damlur(#30238)] With a snort, the black-armoured Dwarf turns and walks back to the edge of the camp as he departs, one might hear him mutter something about 'Men', 'food' and 'bother'.
[Frarin(#16183)] Frarin grunts as Brev stands, but not terribly bothered. Indeed, he seems not to consider taking Brev's request literally. "Mighty demanding for a lad standing in a camp of dwarves. Here, have your knife back then," he grunts again, this time tossing the blade towards Brev, handle first. "Begone then. I've helped you and you've helped me, so the both of you be gone now. I've had enough of bandits and the like."
Nimbly, Brev stretches out his hand to catch said blade. "Thanks," he tosses back, his mouth lifting for a moment in a lopsided grin that's more of a smirk. "As you wish. We'll be gone at daybreak." A brief nod is all the dismissal Frarin gets then, turning to the youth at his side, Brev murmurs, "Come on, Gidon lad, help me with Mescan there," he nods toward the shaggy brown pony standing tethered near the edge of camp. "And for Kiern's sake stop scowling like that. Doesn't suit you."
[Nob(#16122)] "But he...!" is all of Gidon's protest that can be heard as he stands and follows the older man. Thankfully, for the health of the two humans in a dwarven camp, the rest of his comment is soft enough (and they have moved far away enough) that all that can be heard is a low mutter of words.
Brev's response to Gidon is a chuckle. "-is as sharp as a new-whetted dagger? Kiern, don't I know it. Pity we didn't meet that one sooner. Still, we're here now. Oh, forgot to say to you - sounds like myself and Caoimhe might have found some fellow to hire on with."
[Nob(#16122)] Gidon mutters something else, then smiles reluctantly.
"Who's that?" he asks. "What'll you be doing?" He sounds half-wistful.
The corners of Brev's mouth twitch at Gidon's muttering, but he answers readily enough. "Some ranger fellow down in the sheep-herder's village is heading south, down Dunland way. Told him he'd need a local guide if he didn't want gutted." He pauses, snorts. "'Course, if he's up to something I don't like, I can ensure he gets gutted all the sooner." Brev flashes one of his trademark smirks, but then frowns. "Odd sort, he was. Looked sick as a dog - reminded me of that Strawhead fellow we met last time. You know, the one with the spirit in him."
He looks back to Gidon and perhaps notes the wistfulness, for he adds quickly, "Don't worry, I'll see you safe back to Bree first."
[Nob(#16122)] The youth nods, and manages a lop-sided smile. "I ain't worried," he says. "C'n get back t'Bree well 'nough. Just... well, you know." His forehead wrinkles a little. "Sick? That fellow was sort of scary. Nice though." His smile gains strength as he thinks fondly on the dog the man had given him. "Hope he don' come in here, probly them dorves would kill him. Told him t'wait." Worry and distrust combine to bring the scowl descending back onto his thin face.
"I know that in these lands two's safer than one. Or three than two ... anyway, we'll get back." The smile Brev gives Gidon is genuine, for unlike the smirks it reaches his eyes.
The next words bring on a snort. "Figure he was too much of a man for his filthy folk. Kiern, it's ugly seeing a man brought low like this.
The final words bring nothing but puzzlement. "Huh?" Brev, following the speech rather than the thought, glances round for persons the Dwarves might want to kill.
[Nob(#16122)] The boy's face lights. "True," he says, contentedly.
"Dog," Gidon clarifies. He looks around as well, worriedly. "Hope he stays put like I tol' him."
"Oh." The confusion smooths away from Brev's features instead he rubs at his face. "Kiern, I must be tired. Most like he'll stay put unless there's goblins to chase. And if he flushes a few of those the Dwarves will welcome him as a hero. So I wouldn't worry, Gidon lad." He pats the other gently on the shoulder and then goes about the business of finding a blanket and settling himself down to sleep by the pony's side.
The woods to the north have begun taking over the road, their high branches forming an umbrella that blocks out the stars. Off to the south, more trees are present, completing the canopy overhead. The road is narrow here, the woods looming.
Painfully Obvious Net Trap
Obvious exits:
East and West
==============================================================================
| Yfelwydan Time (YST) |
==============================================================================
** Real time is: Mon Nov 01 15:07:50 2010, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Midnight on a Clear Sunday, Day 30 of April 3051.
Note: It's nighttime out, so it's safe to wander outside.
==============================================================================
[Frarin(#16183)] It is dark here on the road where the trees form a dense canopy above. Yet the night is warm, if slightly damp, and the darkness is broken by a small camp of dwarves. A few fires smoulder, but otherwise the camp is quiet and still, huddled into a small dell beside the road. Several sentries stand watch, but the majority of the camp's occupants seem quite weary, and little surprise. Weeks now has it been since Imladech's attack and, despite the dwarves' scouring of the Trollshaws, they have found nothing to indicate he remains there.
Propped up against a tree, Frarin the silver merchant seems to be dozing off, his eyes flickering open and then shut, as if sleep does not come easily. He arm is still bound in a sling and a patchwork of yellow and purple bruises still mar his face around his broken nose, but he looks far better for wear than he has previously, even if sleep seems to elude him.
No sign of Imladech may have been found, but not all of humankind are so elusive. Just as the sun was setting the man on the pony had appeared, and after some measure of argument the sentries have let him pass. Caring for said pony has taken some time, but now Brev threads his way carefully through the outskirts of the Dwarven camp, watching its occupants warily. He seems to be seeking someone (or someones?) in particular ...
At the sight of Frarin he gives a wordless grunt and moves that way. "How's the wrist?" is the curt greeting given in singsong Common.
[Damlur(#30238)] A shadow moves at the edge of the Dwarven camp, but 'tis nothing terrible no lurking orc waiting to spring or Man looking to kill and rob wealthy Dwarves. No, this shadow is not a shadow at all, but a Dwarf in black armour. Battle-axe strapped to his back, this sable-clad Dwarf seems to be keeping his own watch.
Or, at least, he was. At the approach of Brev, eyes glittering beneath the helm watch the Man and the black-armoured Dwarf makes his way towards them both.
[Frarin(#16183)] Frarin's attempt at slumber steals away at the sound of a voice in front of him and he jerks awake, hand instinctly reaching for the blue war hammer at his side. Yet a second of rapid blinking clears his mind and his vision enough to identify his visitor and the merchant returns Brev's grunt with one of his own. "Still broken, shockingly," he replies, just as curtly, though his own voice is as grumbling as the young man's is singsong. "Where have you been?"
Brev glimpses the dark shadow is out of the corner of his eye, and his right hand slips automatically to his dagger as he sinks to a fighter's half-crouch. "What-" he murmurs - and then said shadow resolves itself into a squat Dwarven figure. Snorting, he turns back to Frarin.
"Easy, now," he murmurs at the sight of the war-hammer. "Seen what those things can do to folk - you're the living proof. And it's supposed to be /mending/," he regards the Dwarf with sourness to match the other's grumpiness. "Which is why I came back. Been at the Sheep-herder's village - working."
[Damlur(#30238)] "Careful, lad," rumbles the sable-clad Dwarf as Brev's hand reaches for his dagger, "I am not some hog to be stuck." He pauses a few paces away from the other two, helm turning to look at Brev directly. "The leaves, or whatever they were, you traded to me seem to have worked their charms. My ribs seem sound once more."
[Frarin(#16183)] "Aye, alright," Frarin admits reluctantly, glancing at his wrist. "So tis mending. Still ain't much use yet though, is it? Fancy working some of that magic of yours on it again? Or am I to be kept waiting by the dreary crawl of time for this thing to heal itself?" He gives a brief nod to Damlur when the sable-clad dwarf approches, but otherwise quiets.
Brev gazes darkly at the faceless helm. "Nor am I wood for the chopping. And Kiern knows, in these parts a man's dead if he doesn't keep a weapon close." The hostility fades slightly at the rest of Damlur's words, and he remarks with a glint in his eye, "Glad to hear I'm some use, after all. You folks heal bloody fast."
At Frarin's speech, the man's mouth twists in a wry grin. "Perhaps. Yes and yes." He crouches down, extends his left arm. "Give me the hand, then." His right hand pulls the dagger from its sheath.
[Damlur(#30238)] "Which would be a concern if I had my axe in hand," rumbles the black-armoured Dwarf before he shrugs his shoulders, mail ringing quietly. "We are hardy," is all the Dwarf says on that matter.
The helm turns, eyes upon Frarin, returning the nod. "I trust your recovery is a smooth one, cousin? That Man seemed to take particular interest in working you with his hammer."
[Nob(#16122)] A slim lad comes through the gathered dwarves, squatting down beside Brev and watching. A new dwarven dagger is strapped to one hip his cloak falls over his crippled arm.
[Frarin(#16183)] "Aye, cousin," says Frarin ruefully to his fellow. "He did at that. I cannot say I can figure that traitor out. Black of heart, yet furious when I told him so to his face. Bah, even if I could not best his hammer, at least my tongue seemed to strike him well enough."
Without a word, Frarin loops his sling over his head and gingerly extends his broken wrist to Brev. As the man withdraws a dagger, the merchant casually remarks, "A good blade, that is. Did you get it to replace your last?"
There is little Brev can say in answer to Damlur, though the flicker of his gaze suggests he's listening for Frarin's response.
"Should cut off the hand, that'd solve all your problems." he quips to Frarin, his swarthy features completely expressionless. Perhaps he's forgotten that in dealings between races, humour is not always appreciated. He supports Frarin's wrist, lifting it so that he can see the stiffness of the fingers, then nods and sets dagger-point to the edge of the bandage. "Needs cut back," he explains. "And the dagger? Had this one since 'fore I was grown. It's not for throwing." The corners of his mouth twitch. "Mind you keep still and don't startle me. Don't want my hand to slip, eh?"
As Gidon squats down besides him, he tosses over his shoulder to Damlur, "Here's the one you should thank for your herbs."
HEALING: Frarin has no critical wounds and you'd categorize his condition as fair.
[Damlur(#30238)] A soft snort comes from within that dark helm, and another shrug comes from the black-armoured Dwarf. "Who can say, with Men? They are contradictory at the best of times." As Brev speaks over his shoulder, the helm turns slightly as the Dwarf looks upon Gidon. "Indeed? I just hope he keeps that dagger well."
[Nob(#16122)] The boy bristles a a little at the implied rebuke, and says stiffly, "Will." His voice is soft and burred. He glances questioningly at Brev as they speak of another man. "Was't...?" he asks, but doesn't finish.
"Well well," Frarin grunts as Gidon joins them. "Young Gidon, isn't it? And back with your friend, after all. And have you two already split the goods that your former bandit friends so ill came by?" There is not anger in his voice so much as sarcasm, spoken as the merchant's brows draw together and a long, knowing look crosses his face. Yet, his eyes narrow at Gidon's broken off comment. "Wasn't what?"
Brev lets out a bark of laughter at Damlur's words. "Men aren't /supposed/ to be easy to figure out," he comments without looking up from his work. "That'd take all the fun out of life."
The dagger keeps on with its careful cutting, irrespective of Frarin's words, and at last he says, "There. You need to be able to move the fingers - so, and so." He demonstrates. "Excercise the hand regularly, don't let them stiffen, else you'll be left a cripple. After another week, you can cut it back again - to here." Only then does he look up. "Think I'd be looking for work if I had riches to spare?" he enquires archly.
At Gidon's query, he looks to the youth and shakes his head, cheek twitching. "I don't think so," he says softly. "They said he had a hammer, not an axe, and the name was different. But if it is, I'll deal with him." His voice is cold. "Somehow."
HEALING: You administer aid to Frarin and think that he looks a little better.
[Nob(#16122)] "Weren't our friends!" Gidon says fiercely. His black brows snap together and he scowls at Frarin. "He could've been killed an' that's what you say?" Dwarves, it is clear, have just gone down in his estimation. And since Brev has answered the question, he doesn't bother to.
[Damlur(#30238)] "See that you do," replies the sable-clad Dwarf to Gidon, "and do not let it rust." That said, he turns his attention back to Frarin and Brev. "You shall have you revenge upon the traitor, cousin," says he to Frarin, "I have no doubt. He cannot dance away from Dwarven steel forever, and then he shall have our wrath in full."
Gleaming eyes beneath the helm look at Gidon once more. "Careful how you speak to Dwarves, lad we do not take abuse so easily as your fellows or the hobbits in Bree."
Frarin says, "Aye, lad, you might like to hold your tongue," Frarin cuts back quickly to Gidon, hardly noticing Brev's reply. "Died, mm? I saw no red kerchief when we sprang our ambush. All I saw was that brute of a leader fall suddenly with a knife in his back, and no sign of your friend here -or- the loaded ponies after." Scrambling with his good hand, he withdraws from a tunic pocket a small knife, which he holds up for both Brev and Gidon to see. "Look familiar? A pretty pair you two make, enlisting the help of the dwarves so as to off the majority of those bandits and then make off with stolen goods.""
Brev glances down at his dagger-blade and wipes it clean on his trews before sheathing it again. "Hush," he murmurs to Gidon. "Words sting less than blades."
At Frarin's accusation he arches one brow and pushes himself to his feet, looking down coolly. "Then you didn't look hard enough. Where would I get a bloody kerchief from? By killing a Shireling and dying a shirt with their blood, maybe?" His tone is dry. Matter-of-factly he continues, "Ponies bolted. My-" he catches himself, "My companion caught them eventually, but they'd shed some of their load. Head to Bree and you'll find a pair of fine ponies now property of the Breeguard. What's kept was earned. Danger money. That answer your questions? Next time you folks want to track down someone you don't like, do it yourself." Almost, he makes as though to step away, but then stops, holding out his left hand again. "And I'll have that knife back, thanks. Healer's fee."
His stance, his tone are kept deliberately casual, but he's poised on the balls of his feet, ready to duck should Frarin take that request too literally. Brev's not the trusting type.
[Nob(#16122)] Gidon's mouth is open to speak, his eyes hot, but he catches Brev's word and subsides, though he yet glowers at the dwarf. And he can't quite keep from muttering, "I never either."
[Damlur(#30238)] With a snort, the black-armoured Dwarf turns and walks back to the edge of the camp as he departs, one might hear him mutter something about 'Men', 'food' and 'bother'.
[Frarin(#16183)] Frarin grunts as Brev stands, but not terribly bothered. Indeed, he seems not to consider taking Brev's request literally. "Mighty demanding for a lad standing in a camp of dwarves. Here, have your knife back then," he grunts again, this time tossing the blade towards Brev, handle first. "Begone then. I've helped you and you've helped me, so the both of you be gone now. I've had enough of bandits and the like."
Nimbly, Brev stretches out his hand to catch said blade. "Thanks," he tosses back, his mouth lifting for a moment in a lopsided grin that's more of a smirk. "As you wish. We'll be gone at daybreak." A brief nod is all the dismissal Frarin gets then, turning to the youth at his side, Brev murmurs, "Come on, Gidon lad, help me with Mescan there," he nods toward the shaggy brown pony standing tethered near the edge of camp. "And for Kiern's sake stop scowling like that. Doesn't suit you."
[Nob(#16122)] "But he...!" is all of Gidon's protest that can be heard as he stands and follows the older man. Thankfully, for the health of the two humans in a dwarven camp, the rest of his comment is soft enough (and they have moved far away enough) that all that can be heard is a low mutter of words.
Brev's response to Gidon is a chuckle. "-is as sharp as a new-whetted dagger? Kiern, don't I know it. Pity we didn't meet that one sooner. Still, we're here now. Oh, forgot to say to you - sounds like myself and Caoimhe might have found some fellow to hire on with."
[Nob(#16122)] Gidon mutters something else, then smiles reluctantly.
"Who's that?" he asks. "What'll you be doing?" He sounds half-wistful.
The corners of Brev's mouth twitch at Gidon's muttering, but he answers readily enough. "Some ranger fellow down in the sheep-herder's village is heading south, down Dunland way. Told him he'd need a local guide if he didn't want gutted." He pauses, snorts. "'Course, if he's up to something I don't like, I can ensure he gets gutted all the sooner." Brev flashes one of his trademark smirks, but then frowns. "Odd sort, he was. Looked sick as a dog - reminded me of that Strawhead fellow we met last time. You know, the one with the spirit in him."
He looks back to Gidon and perhaps notes the wistfulness, for he adds quickly, "Don't worry, I'll see you safe back to Bree first."
[Nob(#16122)] The youth nods, and manages a lop-sided smile. "I ain't worried," he says. "C'n get back t'Bree well 'nough. Just... well, you know." His forehead wrinkles a little. "Sick? That fellow was sort of scary. Nice though." His smile gains strength as he thinks fondly on the dog the man had given him. "Hope he don' come in here, probly them dorves would kill him. Told him t'wait." Worry and distrust combine to bring the scowl descending back onto his thin face.
"I know that in these lands two's safer than one. Or three than two ... anyway, we'll get back." The smile Brev gives Gidon is genuine, for unlike the smirks it reaches his eyes.
The next words bring on a snort. "Figure he was too much of a man for his filthy folk. Kiern, it's ugly seeing a man brought low like this.
The final words bring nothing but puzzlement. "Huh?" Brev, following the speech rather than the thought, glances round for persons the Dwarves might want to kill.
[Nob(#16122)] The boy's face lights. "True," he says, contentedly.
"Dog," Gidon clarifies. He looks around as well, worriedly. "Hope he stays put like I tol' him."
"Oh." The confusion smooths away from Brev's features instead he rubs at his face. "Kiern, I must be tired. Most like he'll stay put unless there's goblins to chase. And if he flushes a few of those the Dwarves will welcome him as a hero. So I wouldn't worry, Gidon lad." He pats the other gently on the shoulder and then goes about the business of finding a blanket and settling himself down to sleep by the pony's side.
Players: Frarin, Brev, Damlur, Gidon
