================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Tue Jul 27 12:47:46 2004
Bree time: Dusk 7:23 PM on Hevensday of Autumn - October 12,1432
Moon Phase: Last Quarter Moon
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Breelands Weather
The dusk autumn air is cool but pleasant around you. The day sky is clear with only slight wisps of clouds overhead.

Above the Prancing Pony
A small path climbs along Bree-hill, above the Prancing Pony. A stone thrown could easily hit the building from this path. The path meanders along in a more or less straight line as it cuts across Bree-hill. To the north the Hobbit Smials are visible, while the holes of South Row can be seen in the opposite direction.


In the dusky twilight air, a dim figure dances: walk forward, whirl, arm bent and sweeping up, pivot. Swing around your outstretched arm as if your fist is the center of an unmovable circle and kneel, elbow coming to your waist. Toby, bare torso streaked with sweat and dust and youthful face intent, repeats these movements over and over. Light and noise fill the courtyard of the Inn at the base of the hill almost directly below, but this small grassy plot half-way up is all but silent. Only the quiet thud of the boy's bare feet, and the in-out panting of his breath mar the evening.


Against the deep purple, a darker shadow stands silent. It is the figure of a man, but no pale flesh shows in the gathering dim, no face is revealed in the raised hood - cocked in watchfulness. On quiet feet, he swiftly closes on the bare-chested boy as Toby pivots away, reaching simultaneously for the back of the child's neck and his bent arm, seeking to sweep him to the ground.


Footsteps whisper in the grass... a hard-fingered hand shoves Toby's head forward just as he begins to look around; another rings his wrist and jerks it backwards. The boy ducks his head in an attempt to free himself from above, twisting and struggling. His free hand swings wildly into a fist - but alas, the boy's own momentum as he began to kneel works against him and for the second time in less than a month, his face is mashed into the ground. It is no quiet resigned lad who lays there though, rather something akin to a wildcat: kicking, writhing, twisting and bucking his body, Toby attempts to free himself.


His captor chuckles softly, the sound broken a bit in the struggle to contain the wild boy. The gloved hand clasped about Toby's arm tightens, twisting it to his shoulderblades with no great force. A knee is planted in the small of his back, to discourage further bucking, while the arm pressed to the nape of his neck snakes swiftly beneath his throat, in warning.

"Toby, Toby, Toby," the man whispers, with amusement in his voice. "Left your guard down."


Toby grunts, turning his head to the side as far as he can, and lifting it up a bit to keep from throttling himself on Drystan's arm. "Let me go!" he pants hoarsely. "I didn't do nothing!" A weight presses down into his back (again..). An attempt to roll sideways gets exactly nowhere, and the boy subsides a little.


Dusk lengthens the shadows cast by trees and buildings, darkening everything as the Sun wanes. And indeed, in the shadow of a nearby tree a shadow lurks... yes, a shadow within a shadow. But this shadow does not move, as a pair of keen eyes look intently upon the wrestling pair. His hand goes to the pommel of an ancient-looking sword at his side, but nothing more can be seen, as the shadow remains still now. Only Henleg's grey eyes move, watching the man and the boy.


"Didn't you?" Drystan considers that politely, giving no ground as the boy struggles. The dark lines of his cloak hiss over the yellowing grass as he steadies himself. "I have heard tale that you have been much in the company of the Tall People," the man murmurs. "True?"


Grass pokes into the boy's mouth and tickles his nose. "No!" he says intensely, "I ... " Sheer shock at Drystan's accusation widens his one visible eye and momentarily calms his struggles. "I keep running into them," he says at last, sullenly. "Ain't my fault." He gets his free hand palm flat against the ground and heaves upward and sideways, trying to wriggle out from under the man.


Rather than harm the boy, the man releases the trapped arm and uses Toby's momentum to drag him up, half-seated, half-lying against his chest. The hard, leather vambrace of Drystan's forearm presses against his throat, free arm reaching around the boy's chest. To a casual eye, it seems an almost paternal embrace - the larger shadow seated, with a smaller figure wrapped in his arms.

"Easy," he mutters in Toby's ear. "Where have they been following you?"


A red smear blossoms on Toby's face, the beginnings perhaps of another bruise, and an angry red line marks his temple - courtesy of a twig only half-buried in the grass. Leather pushes into his neck, and he shoves his head backwards in an attempt to loosen the pressure enough to turn and look up at Drystan. "All over," he replies somewhat sulkily, his voice neither soft nor loud, but on a level with the evening breezes that sweep across the hill. "In the market and around the Pony. Saw one out of the gate too once. Let me go!" He pulls at Drystan's arm with both hands.


Henleg smiles, but any merriment of that gesture is lost, for his eyes remain trained on the two figures in front of him, sharp ears getting all their words. Indeed, he's one of the Rangers young Toby has met... and now he maybe knows why the boy was so bruised some time ago. The Ranger's eyes harden and his hand caresses the pommel of Narmegil, but he doesn't let his feelings explode... yet.


The boy's strength is purified, amplified by his anger. The arm about Toby's chest tightens with bruising force, but that about his throat is loosened in the struggle. Drystan rocks back somewhat, fighting to draw the boy closer with the sheer advantage of size.

"Easy," he hisses. "Why are they following you? What have you done?"


Toby gasps at the pressure. "Let go!" he says hoarsely, insistently. With his momentary advantage, he crams a hand beneath the arm at his throat and shoves.

Still, despite the man's method of interrogation, Toby seems willing enough to answer his questions. Or at least, he has been... his slim form stiffens and his prying arm stills at Drystan's last words. "Nothing," he says shortly.


Another appears over the rise of the path now; a young woman apparently heading down toward the Pony. She stops when she spies the two sitting there and, recognizing the boy's voice, she frowns. "Toby? You getting y'self into trouble /again/?"

Her gaze turns from the boy to the man, her expression curious.


Henleg scowls as Hanneth appears, yet he does not leave his hiding place. His hand relaxes on the pommel of his sword, yet his eyes remain hard, watching the man and Toby.


"Do not lie," the man advises gently, dispassionately. But nothing more does Drystan manage, sharply lifting his shadowy face towards the sudden voice. His hold on the boy shifts, both arms wrapping fondly about Toby's form. "No trouble. Teachin' the lad to wrestle," he offers, in the flat, smiling accent of Bree.


Bones press whitely against taut skin in Toby's face. "I.." he is beginning when a woman's voice spills into the no-longer-quite-so-quiet night. "No!" His expression relaxes into a glower, all for Hanneth. "I ain't. An' I wouldn't have neither." Now that he could possibly free himself from Drystan's hold, he stops fighting, merely leaning a little forward and shifting his weight.


Henleg scowls now, for both man and boy are plainly lying to Hanneth. This is something he'll remember next time he meets the odd boy on the street... or if he can manage to get a word with this stranger. But he remains still and silent, merely watching for the time being.


The woman nods, slowly. "Odd time for it, I'm thinkin'... though I s'pose such'd have to wait till after yer chores, eh?" To the man she adds, helpfully, "Be careful of this one, he's got a temper, for sure."


"So he does. But not to worry, lass." Drystan pats at the boy's trapped shoulder, as the twilight deepens around them. "I'm teaching him discipline. Isn't that right, Toby?"


"I do not," Toby says, as the glower turns into a glare that surely belies his words. Part of that glare catches Drystan as he cranes to see the man's face, but then it fades. "Yeah," he mumbles, unwillingly.


The situation and both fellows' words are digested for a moment, and then the woman nods. "Well have fun then," she offers, and continues on her way, pulling her collar close to keep the chill evening breeze out.


Henleg watches as his kinswoman continues on her way, and a grim smile forms again on his lips. Maybe now the boy and the man will reveal their strange actions and words, and their odd relationship. And so he remains silent, not revelaing his hiding even to Hanneth.


The rough leather of Drystan's gloved hands slip down to the crooks of the boy's elbows, and he is very still, watching until Hanneth has faded into the dim. "Good lad," he says softly. "Now, there is a reason they hound your heels. Tell me everything, Master Appledore, and perhaps I can help you."


Toby's face is stiff and proud. "Owe you. I ain't forgot," he says, then his head drops. "They don't know," he protests feebly.


The woman fades into the night, certainly. Yet darkness is kind to those who move in secret, and so it is unlikely that any would note her silent return, to sit crouched behind some bushes.


Henleg's face lights up with interest once more, as Toby admits owing something to the man... and hinting about a secret kept from the Rangers. A secret that will surely be unveiled soon.


"Nor have I forgotten." Drystan's voice is impassive, cool beneath the drone of crickets. He tips his head to study what he can see of the boy's face, fingertips pressing into his bare skin. "But perhaps that debt may be partly paid in words. Tell me what you've done to draw their eye. Speak quickly, and do not lie."


The boy winces as Drystan's fingers dig into his arm. "I been paying you!" he protests, then wilts. "Tried to knife one of 'em," he whispers, giving in at last. The trees sway in the darkening air, giving voice to the winds that sweep along the hill, and more lights spring into life below as the Pony comes alive with evening drinkers.


Henleg's eyes glitter coldly as mentioning of knifing comes from the boy's mouth. His face is now grim, for it might well be that this man had something to do with the boy's mischief. Still, he hasn't heard from any injured suffered by one of his kinsmen... and it's a strange behavior, coming from a Breelander. The Rangers are mistrusted in Bree, but certainly not hated. This indeed is strange for Henleg, and so keeps listening, trying to catch more information.


Drystan blinks, grip loosening in the wake of the whispered admission. The man is silent for a moment, as the clink of glass, and muffled melody of voices rise from the Pony below. "I cannot imagine why they watch you," says he, finally, with a dry edge. And yet, he does not sound especially displeased. "Did they harm you?"


Toby's voice grows louder and a hint of surliness growls in its depths. "I told you," he says. "They don't..." He stops, then repeats more firmly. "They don't know." He pulls at Drystan's loosened grasp, leaning swiftly forward and trying to free himself. His bare heels scrabble for leverage against the slippery grass. "No," he grunts as he moves. "Bloody nose and a bunch of bruises. Wrenched my arm."


Truth at last. So the boy's bruises were not made by a fall, but because he had tried to knife someone. And assuming they had been talking about the Rangers before, and that the man keeps talking about 'them'... Henleg has to assume it's one of his kinsmen indeed. A dark sceret indeed, but still the man's participation in such an act, if any, is not clear to the Ranger. Life in the Wild teaches patience and stealth... and so Henleg remains hidden, bidding his time and looking for more answers.


Toby's desperate struggle draws a faint smile of satisfaction to the man's lips, and it is a long moment before he releases one of the boy's arms. Drystan rises to his feet, in a languid uncurling. "You have paid for your lack of skill, then." He looks down into the other's face, voice falling to the softest brush of breath. "And they will pay for the harm done to you, if you wish it."

"Do you wish it, Toby?"


One arm is released, the other pulled upward with Drystan's standing. "I was practicing," Toby says, standing also perforce and reaching up to rub his face. "To learn how he done it, see? He was quicker 'n anybody I ever did see." Drystan's question... offer... brings an uneasy shuffling of feet and a sideways slide of eyes. "He didn't kill me," he says, as if it is a reply; and perhaps it is. "He ought to have..."


Ahhh, more replies keep flowing for the boy's lips. The Dunadan wasn't harmed by his attack... good. But Henleg has marked the tone and the words of the stranger, for it seems the Rangers have a foe in him they didn't know about. Henleg smiles grimly once again... he appreciates a good foe, and this one seems quite skillful. Evading his hatred for his kinsmen for such a long time without noone noticing, well... that's worthy of praise. But he marks the stranger nonetheless, should they meet in Bree or in the Wild.


"Indeed." The man studies Toby's discomfort a moment more. Then releases him, patting gently at his cheek. "It sounds as if you were shown a rare mercy." Drystan stoops to gather up the boy's shirt as he speaks, shaking it out before offering it to him. "You must be more careful."


Toby scowls at the ground. "Don't understand it." His shirt waves whitely in front of his eyes and he looks up, taking the garment and shrugging into it. "Yeah," he says, teeth showing in a brief humorless smile. His bare feet pad softly to the rim of the hill and he stares down at the Inn for several long moments, then shrugs and turns towards the path that leads to the bottom.


The Ranger slowly backs away, protected by the tree he's been hiding under. The meeting between man and child seems to be nearing it's end... although Henleg plans to 'casually meet' with them soon, and in doing so try to learn some other things. He crouches behind the tree, ears still attentive to anything that might be said by either Toby or the stranger before they part.


"Toby," Drystan calls softly after him. "This man owns you now. There is no mystery to his actions. Naught but calculation. Watch yourself."


There is doubt, confusion, fear in the face that turns to seek Drystan's. A short nod, acknowledgement or agreement? and the boy vanishes along the curve of the path.


Drystan walks moodily into the night, pausing only to blow a raspberry in Henleg's general direction.


The Ranger watches as the boy leaves, slowly going back towards the lights of the town. He did not miss the stranger's words, and grimness comes to his face again. He stays sitting behind the tree for a moment, and then leaves the place too. Strangely, he's taking the same path the stranger took... or is it perhap on purpose?