A Supper Twice Stolen

Highlands - Dunland <>

Mean, moody, and magnificent. Such words might describe the forested highlands of Caerdh, the foothills of the Misty Mountains. This is a land of wild, silent places, of huge skies and magnificent landscapes, of challenge and adventure. The mountains and harsh climate can make this an inhospitable place, yet there are many who call these hills and valleys their home.

Here the looming forest dominates. A mass of living green that rises to mantle the steep mountain slopes to the east, rolls and dips to fill steep-sided valleys to the north and south, and flattens to the west, in the direction of distant Kierkgard. The trail meaders southeast, towards a large hill topped by a stone fortress.

Save for the well-worn, rutted track that cuts the forest from north to south, there are few visible paths or roads in this area. A few game trails spin off into the trees, but they seem seldom used.

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There\'s a light rain just beginning to mist down off of the mountains, blanketing Dunland gently with precipitation. The sun is just starting to set and sends rainbows glittering through the sky where the showers are barely more than fog. Mixed with the ancient trees of the forest, the display is marvelous to any appreciative audience. Only one thing shatters the peaceful tranquility of the woods.. the sounds of high pitched voices yelling.

\"You took my supper!\"

\"I can if I want to!\"

\"No you can\'t! You stole it and you have to give it back!\" It\'s the back and forth arguing that children can so easily fall into.

\"My father will come kill you if you don\'t shut up!\"

[Brev(#30997)] Through the woods, seemingly from the path that leads to Creatrach, comes an adult figure. Tall, lanky, scruffy ... the fellow has the look of a labourer or suchlike, certainly no-one of consequence. He carries some loops of sinew and cord ready in one hand. His movements are slow and economical, almost lazy - there is nothing lazy about the glint in his eye as he catches the sound of voices, though. He cocks his head, then moves in that direction, as carefully and quietly as he may.

\"You\'re lying.\" The voice of the victim argues.

\"My father is Brodie. He\'s the Ceann and he\'s going to come beat up yours if you don\'t be quiet!\"

\"My pa says Brodie ain\'t nothing but a murderer of women and kids. Your father is a terrible Ceann and everyone hates him! Give back my supper! I caught that fish myself!\"

As Brev sneaks closer, he\'ll see the two boys arguing, neither more than eight or nine years old. One has a shock of brown hair with clothes that are damp from the rain, but otherwise in good repair. He\'s holding a small basket in one hand and a heavy stick in his other.

The other boy has very short black hair and grubby clothing, covered in dirt. He\'s not holding anything, and is at a very sudden disadvantage when the first child yells angrily, \"Don\'t you say that about my papa!!\" and goes after him with the branch, swinging it at him with the stick.

[Brev(#30997)] Interesting. The scruffy-looking fellow cocks his head, and for the briefest of instants a smirk crosses his lips, to be quickly replaced by a slack, disinterested expression. He separates off one snare from the rest and starts looking about for a suitable place to set it. As the argument erupts into childhood violence, he lets out a snatch of off-key whistling through his teeth, a thread of sound that might or might not disturb the combatants, but he makes no move to intervene.

The brown-haired boy wastes no time assaulting the other child with the stick, smacking him with it repeatedly as he tosses the basket to the ground. \"My papa is going to kill you and your family!\" He yells, completely ignorant of the contradiction he\'s making in his own argument and reasoning for attacking the other boy.

\"Stop it!!\" The other child yells, throwing his arms up protectively against the swats from the stick. When the assault doesn\'t end, he jumps at Brodie\'s son and tackles him down to the mud, trying to pry the stick away.

[Brev(#30997)] The unappreciated watcher selects a place for that snare - beneath a bush that just happens to be surrounded by smooth mud. He places his feet carefully so as to keep disturbance of the ground to a bare minumum, and when he eases away he covers the few adult prints with a drift of leaves. Straightening then, he lets out a burst of chuckling, and calls out loudly, \"Fine show, there.\"

When Brev more loudly announces his presence, the young bully looks up sharply. He stares at the man for a long moment, and in that span of time the other boy shoves the first away and bolts off, racing away through the woods.

Brodie\'s self-proclaimed son turns to watch the other boy flee, then stands with the stick again and moves to grab up the basket again. He takes out a small brook trout and frowns as he looks it over and discovers it to be very uncooked.

The boy looks up at Brev again, \"Do you know how to cook a fish? I\'ll share it with you.\" It\'s a very generous offer, for an eight year old. He looks undeniably a much younger version of his father, Brodie.

[Brev(#30997)] The man lets out another chuckle, barely turning his head as the black-haired lad turns to flee. \"An why would I be wantin\' that? Got a supper waitin\' for me up at the keep. Might give it me for free if I bring in somethin\' worthwhile.\" He gives the youngster a slow, almost vacant grin.

The boy lowers the fish back into the basket and slowly sets it down on the ground. The proud expression of triumph slowly transforms to one of worry and he begins to back slowly away from Brev, one careful step at a time. \"Don\'t come near me! I\'ll hit you!\" He tries to threaten, but his voice is higher now and filled with fear.

[Brev(#30997)] The man watches the reaction impassively. \"Got somethin\' worthwhile, have you?\" He matches the boy step for step, and soon he is standing over the discarded basket. \"One little fish? Wantin\' this?\" He sniggers.

The child appears to be torn with indecision. He grips the stick tightly in both hands and looks around quickly to see if anyone else is around. Then his gaze goes to the fish that Brev is pointing out. \"It\'s mine! Give it back!\" There\'s a plaintive whine to the demand as hunger battles with fear.

[Brev(#30997)] Deliberately the man lifts up the basket. \"Why? Don\'t get somethin\' for nothin\' round here.\" He eyes the boy blandly, then drawls on. \"Brodie\'s son, you said. Heard folk up at the keep talkin\' bout this Brodie. Rich bugger, weren\'t he?\" He lets the youngster work out the unvoiced implication there.

Wide brown eyes struggle to narrow as the child tries to show bravery in place of fear. \"Brodie is my papa and he\'s the Ceann! If you don\'t give me back my fish, when he comes back he\'ll get a metal rod and he\'ll hit you with it until you bleed!\" For all of his threats the child isn\'t daring enough to step towards Brev to claim his stolen supper.

[Brev(#30997)] The man with the basket shrugs nonchalantly. \"Ain\'t Ceann now. Folk be sayin\' he\'s dead. I don\'t fear no dead men.\" He swings the basket a little, then adds, \"Hungry, eh? Might be I could be helpin\' you there - for the right price.\"

The boy fiercely shakes his head. \"That isn\'t true! My papa isn\'t dead! They\'re just saying that.\" When Brev swings the basket the child flinches back, even though he\'s standing a few feet away. \"I don\'t have any money..\"

[Brev(#30997)] The man grins at those first words. \"Where is he then, eh boy?\" He swings the basket a little more, just for show (though the trout stays put). \"Your Da has money. What would he pay for keepin\' his son alive?\"

Judging by the expression that washes over the lad\'s face, fear is beginning to win out again. He takes another step away from Brev, his grip on the stick tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. \"Keep the fish.\" He says, lifting his foot to back away another pace without daring to tear his gaze away from the stranger.

[Brev(#30997)] \"Fish?\" The man laughs at those first words. \"I don\'t want the fish.\" For a moment, perhaps, his drawl is a little less lazy. As the boy steps back, he once again matches his pace, though his free hand remains empty. \"Where\'s your Da, boy?\"

When Brev steps towards him again, the child flings the stick at him as hard as he can, \"I don\'t want to be a slave!\" He shrieks in terror and turns to run away, racing at the highest speed his short legs can take him in the direction of the mountains.

[Brev(#30997)] The man has perhaps anticipated the move, for he sidesteps and the stick clatters harmlessly against his leg - bruising perhaps, but no worse. He sets the basket down, fingers the leather sling tucked in his belt then abandons that idea with a scowl - too many trees. \"Then stop runnin\', boy,\" comes the shout as he debates whether to give chase.

The child slows briefly when he stumbles over a tree root, nearly tumbling to the ground. He recovers quickly, sparing only a single glance back with another shrill yell, \"Go away!\" Then he continues his retreat with a reckless terror driving him.

[Brev(#30997)] The man snorts and mutters under his breath, with no drawl, \"You\'ll be lucky.\" Aloud he says, \"Reckon a little runt like you ain\'t worth my time. If you don\'t be wantin\' food an\' drink ... you can starve.\" Ostensibly he turns to go - but he has marked the youngster\'s path, and will follow a little later.