================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Sat Aug 14 14:36:51 2004
Bree time: Midnight 1:50 AM on Monday of Winter - December 6,1432
Moon Phase: Waning Gibbous Moon
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Breelands Weather
The midnight winter air is cold and dry around you. The night sky still dumps copious amounts of rain down upon you. The moon is above the horizon and in its waning gibbous phase.

Archway
A small enclosed area rests underneath an archway overhead. There is just enough space for four or five ponies to be lead abreast below the arch. The area here sits between the two wings of the Prancing Pony, one each to the north and south. East leads to an open yard between the two wings, and the stables, which are in the southern wing. The Great East Road waits just outside the archway, to the west. Facing the hill, on the left under the arch is a large doorway reached by a few broad steps. Over the door the following is painted in white letters: THE PRANCING PONY by BARLIMAN BUTTERBUR.


From within the shadowy shell of the Pony's archway, the rain roars with a voice like the sea. Thin, black rivulets course through the passage, but the musty stone space itself is a dry enough shelter, if neither warm nor comfortable. Against one curving wall, a man leans, wound head to knee in leather and cloth. The lights from the inn send tentative, watery fingers through the thick darkness, touching on the edge of a cowl, the casual line of an unmoving shoulder.


Clop.
Clop. Clop.
Clop.

Hooves echo through the watery night, overlaid by quiet quarreling.

"I told you not to!"
"Well, what do you think I was going to do?"
"Nothing. You shouldn't have done nothing."

A sodden wet pony-head appears in the archway, flanked by two darker figures. The animal shies suddenly, ears pricked nervously and eyes rolling at the unexpected (and therefore dangerous) presence of a man; and Toby and Tathar abruptly stop talking.


In no especial hurry to be trampled or kicked by a startled beast, the shadow-figure breathes a soothing word; within his hood a glimmering black gaze seeks the pony's eye. Crooning, the man speaks in a strange tongue, slowly extending a gloved hand, palm up. The silenced voices, clearly, can wait.


An ear cocks, swivels towards the soothing voice, and the pony stretches his neck out cautiously, his nostrils wide. He snorts once, dances to the side, then allows himself to be calmed. Toby's hand on his halter ensures he couldn't have gone far in any case. "Shhhh," the boy murmurs under his breath, in conjunction with Drystan's oddly-shaped words. Tathar edges a step backwards, putting herself behind her brother.


"You smell like wet horse," Drystan flatly informs the animal, stroking it once between the eyes. He tilts his head past the pony's shoulder then, an unseen brow rather plainly raised. "Well? Drive him on, Toby."


The pony snorts again, pushing its nose into Drystan's arm, before a tightening on its headstall moves it a step forward. Toby pads through the archway leaving unseen footprints to mark his path then hesitates, looking back at the dark figure. Rain plasters his already sopping hair to his head, and streaks down the pale oval of his face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then shuts it again.

"He /is/ a wet horse," Tathar pipes up, the smile on her face translating into her voice. "Thorn, why are you out here in the rain?"


"Mistress Appledore!'

Drystan steps back with the nudge and chuckles quietly, lifting empty, treat-free hands for the pony's inspection. "The question is, why are you out in the rain, in winter, unshod, and insufficiently clothed?" His eyes flicker over Toby by the end, a swift toe to head, that lingers on his pale, uncertain face.


The boy remains silent, whatever he thought to say swallowed by rain and uncertainty; but Tathar is well able and willing to speak. "It's not snowing," she informs Drystan. "I don't need shoes until it snows. Besides, Father.." Brown eyes, black they look in this night and shadow, flick towards Toby and when she continues, the subject seems to have changed somewhat. "Did you stab someone, Thorn? There was a man asking me about you... he said maybe it was a misunderstanding though." There is nothing of doubt or censure in her voice; whatever Drystan has done or not done is accepted unquestioningly.


Tathar has won his full attention. "What man was this, lass? How was he favoured?" The thrum of rain, and the earthy scents of mud and horse are nearly overwhelming in the dark-drenched place. But Drystan speaks softly, and leans his shoulders against the cold wall as though he has nothing better to do than chat with children in a wintry downpour.


Toby edges back under the overhang and drips. The thick woolen coat he now wears protects him from some of the drenching rain, but only some. "He was tall," Tathar says. "And he wouldn't tell me his name. He said he was Toby's friend though. And that you threw a knife at a friend of his. But it didn't hurt him much."


Unbidden, the man's hand drifts to an empty scabbard at his side. He is silent for the span of a breath, then turns his shadowed face towards Toby. "A friend of yours, lad?" Drystan smiles, slight and crooked. "Plainly, then, it was a misunderstanding."


Toby's hand tightens on the pony's headstall, and the animal stamps an impatient foot, tossing its head up and shaking a spray of water through the sheltering arch. "Ain't got no friends," he says gruffly. "Only 'Lias, and it weren't him." He hesitates again, his forehead furrowing, and for some time only the pound and splash of the rain fills the night. Then, "Y'should watch fer them rangers, Thorn," he says reluctantly, each word pulled from him as if by some unignorable force. "They.." His face dips, eyes avoiding Drystan's. ".. been asking me 'bout you."


The faceless figure fails to release Toby from his gaze, considering him as the cold seeps and writhes about their damp party. "Have they now ...?" Drystan chuckles softly, sounding entirely unconcerned. "I thank you for the warning, but it sounds as though you are the one who needs protection."

Rather absently, he casts a glance to Tathar. "And you, child, if they have haunted your steps as well."


Toby's shoulders rise and fall in a noiseless sigh and he looks up at last, some burden fallen away. "They ain't hurt me," he tells Drystan. "Follow me all over, and talk at me, but that's all. Uncanny-like... make a body say stuff he don't intend to."

"Haunted me?" Tathar says, her voice rising in surprise.. and fear? "No, I only saw him that once. Isn't it safe here? I - I don't go far..." Her face is white in the dim underhang, and bare feet sidle closer to Drystan and sanctuary. Bravely, she steadies her voice and goes on, as if all is normal. "Is he not a friend of yours, Toby? He said he was..."


"They have not hurt you yet," Drystan corrects, the last word hard-edged with warning. As he speaks, he opens an arm to the girl so subtly requesting harbour, the scent of damp wool rising as his dark cloak unfurls. "Guard your tongue, and your heart against them, for they are indeed ... uncanny. As choking to the mind and will as clinging ivy."

The man draws a breath, then smiles at the girl-child. "You, Tathar, need fear nothing but becoming ill." With playful aplomb, he sweeps her up from the chilly mud and into his arms, and makes for the far side of the arch with purposeful strides. "You, lass, will have a fire, and your brother too. No arguments."


Tathar squeaks as her feet leave the solid earth for insubstantial air, and clutches at Drystan's cloak. "I'm not cold!" she protests, laughing, though her red nose and blue feet are mute witnesses that she lies. "Put me down!"

Through the rain, into the enveloping warmth of the Inn - Toby stares after, his face somber; then heads towards the stables to put the pony away, and join his sister within by the hearth.