================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Sun Sep 19 19:35:56 2004
Bree time: Mid Afternoon 3:47 PM on Highday of Spring - March 23,1433
Moon Phase: Waxing Gibbous Moon
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Breelands Weather
The mid afternoon spring air is cool but pleasant around you. A light drizzle trickles from the sky.

Stables
Stall after stall lines the walls of this small outbuilding on the south side of the Prancing Pony, confirming that this building indeed serves as a stable. Heavy solid wood, practical though not beautiful, makes up the construction of the beams and gates that keep the beasts securely locked inside. A low wooden trough runs through each of the stalls so as to provide fresh water at all times, and bales of hay rest in the corner of each stall. Two large windows at the back of the stables lie propped open with a chunk of wood, affording fresh air to the animals as well as their owners and the stable hobbit who cares for the place. The doors currently stand wide open, though a heavy iron bolt can be seen from the inside, making it fairly evident that the stable can be protected from things on the outside if necessary.


Winter has released its clutches. The only snow that remains is deep within the shady woods, in cool hollows that rarely see the sun. At last, say some. Too soon, say others, who are not so fond of rain, rain, and still more rain.

A chill grey drizzle weeps from the heavy leaden sky, pattering endlessly on roofs and splashing through the open stable windows. Where the heavy door has been dragged mostly shut, a huge muddy sinkhole lurks to swallow up the unwary. Inside, a boy sits on a overturned bucket and eyes the rain with disfavor. His bare feet are mud-streaked, his shirt sopping wet and brown hair is plastered to his head. Runnels of muddy water streak his scowling face.


The heavy door creaks beneath a sudden weight, a shadow passing before the grey light of day. There is a squelching splash, married to a soft curse, and the man beyond half-falls into the stables with an appalling lack of grace. Drystan catches himself, a gloved hand touching the muddy floor, narrowly avoiding taking down the grimly sodden boy.


"Hey!" Toby jerks backwards out of the way of the falling man. "Watch what you're... Thorn. They're looking for you, did you know? I read a paper about it." From an angry snarl, his voice quiets abruptly and he glances warily behind him.


Collecting himself with as much dignity as may be managed when one is soaking wet and muddied to the knee, Drystan leans against the door to close it and pushes back his woollen hood. Shoulders pressed comfortably to the wood, he twists a faint smile, black eyes straying from Toby to the rows of stalls. "I have been made well aware. Are we alone?"


Avid curiousity lightens the boy's brown eyes and banishes (for now) any remnants of reserve. "What'd you do?" he asks, leaning forward a little. The bucket scrapes noisily against the floor and Toby looks over his shoulder again. "Yeah," he says dismissively. "Ain't no one here but me and Sam and he went off for a drink bit ago." His gaze returns to Drystan's face and fastens there, leech-like in its greedy intensity. "Kill some'un?"


The cool eyes return to Toby and linger there, a bare moment longer than comfort demands. "What do you think, Appledore?" Rainwater beads slowly from the inky river of Drystan's hair, and drips from dark sleeve and hem; all is fluid and changing. "And what have you heard?"


Toby shifts on his bucket-chair, but defiantly refuses to look away. "Nothing," he says sullenly. "Nobody knows nothing. They say you stole a bunch of plows from the blacksmith or kilt some man up Archet way or broke into Widow Taterfield's kitchen and scared her cat so bad it ran six ways to Monday 'round the stove or stabbed 'Lias and made off with 'im and are gonna ask for ransom to give 'im back... that's dumb, though," he adds scornfully. "Lias told me 'bout it. What're you gonna do?"


Drystan listens to the litany of his fearsome deeds with faint amusement; until Elias is named. The man's gaze sharpens and lowers in thought, as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"... I don't know," he admits finally, and grimaces in renewed mirth for the absurdity of it. "But I've no mind to have my neck stretched."

He looks up with a breath, as one waking. "Is Bob about? Nob?"


"No, I said wasn't nobody here but me. What you want them for?" Curiousity unsatisfied mingles with a faintly resentful glitter in his eyes with the reflected window light. "Tath's worried about you," he adds grudgingly. "Says I should feed you or some such. Ain't got no food more'n what I need m'self. Dunno why she thinks feeding's the answer to ever'body's problems, neither." Silence falls for a few moments, filled by the drumming rain. "So did you? Kill somebody?"


"Tathar is not to seek me out," the man says sharply. "Do you understand me? You are not to allow her to do so." Menace rolls from Drystan's sodden frame like heat, and the chill of his black gaze hints at depths which the boy, perhaps, should not mine.

"Would it please you to hear of murder, Appledore?" he asks then, gently. "Of pleading, and blood, and the last desperate struggle to draw breath - is that thrilling to you?"

The man lifts his hood, disdain in the motion. "Do you want to be a naughty, naughty rogue, just like me? You are a child."


"Like I could stop her doing anything she wanted to," Toby mutters, his eyes faltering and finally dropping before the threat before him. Unbidden, a shudder runs through his thin frame. "No..." It is almost unheard, the truth of this whisper. Murder may thrill him in abstract, but the harsh realities are not to his liking, this lad who wavers on the brink of dishonesty. Petty thievery, vengeance, these are more his. A flash of anger is but half-hearted at Thorn's scornful question. "M'not." And, subdued, almost unwilling, "I'll tell her you said it, she listens to you. D'you need anything? Don't got much, but I can get it maybe."


Satisfied, malice melting from voice and bearing, Drystan gently shakes his head. "Only, tell Bob ... No, leave Bob out of it. If any come to you, asking for news of me, tell them I have gone East." He casts a quick, counting glance over the horses, then tugs open the door. But wreathed in the rain and greylight, he hesitates.

"Toby. Tell your sister she need not worry. And ... that I did not do what they say." Then, testily: "And for the gods' sake, wear your shoes."

He ducks his head, and is swiftly lost to the downpour.


The boy darts a swift glance upwards. "Aye," he says and a thin smile flicks at his mouth. "East." A gust of wind catches at the open door, spraying rain into the stable. "I'll tell her." He hesitates, then renews his offer almost reluctantly. "If'n you do though, we'd help. You helped us..."

Thorn is gone, perhaps the words borne to him on the wind, perhaps not. Toby stands up to shove the door shut again and yells into the deserted courtyard. "It ain't snowing, I don't need shoes!"