================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Thu Aug 12 18:22:10 2004
Bree time: Midday 12:06 PM (noon) on Hevensday of Winter - December 1,1432
Moon Phase: Full Moon
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Breelands Weather
The midday winter air is cold and dry around you. The murky sky is overcast and dreary.


Despite the chill weather and dreary skies, people throng the marketplace. Brightly colored wraps and warm coats dominate the crowd that swirls about the stalls... and most especially the pie stall where an enticing aroma lifts into the air.


One boy wears no coat nor hat nor muffler; instead he sports a large brown shirt with no buttons. It is well-made and has no holes, nor spots nor any other evidence of prior wear - yet for some strange reason, Toby has it on inside-out and the white threads make a comical counterpoint to the dark fabric. He is standing quite still in the midst of the crowd and his gaze is fixed on the counter that is adorned with steaming pies.


Lugging a heavy basket full of produce, a Bree woman wends her way through the crowd from the western end of the market. She pauses at a trinket stall, setting down her basket roughly to rub her sore fingers. A small tater, disloged from its brethren when the basket hit the ground, rolls out and into the busy street. Randel watches its progress in mild dismay, but apparently considers rescuing the endangered spud not worth the trouble; she turns back to examine the shiny ornaments.


There is a babble of contradictory voices at the counter and the chink of small stones hitting glass is interspersed with rather a large amount of pushing.
"No, this one is better."
"Tisn't. You don't know nothing about how a pie should taste. /This/ one is the best."
"The both of you are wrong. Here, look, have a bite of this one again. Now tell me you can't say that isn't the nicest crust you ever set teeth in."


Among the people garbed in colored fabrics, one detaches himself for both the discreet viridescent tone of his garment as well as his height. He looks at the pie stall curiously, once in a while examining the people around. If he recognizes any acquaintance, he greets not, an amused glint in his silver eyes as he watches the locals discuss about the best pie.


As keenly as the boy watches the pies, a man watches the boy. Wrapped in dark layers of wool and leather, a hooded figure leans against a wall of the bakery.
Arms folded over his chest, muddy boots crossed at the ankle, Drystan radiates cool, quiet attention.


But someone else has seen the potato. His eyes dragged away from the inviting sight of food - no, better /free/ food - by a shout across the way, Toby spies a small lumpy root rolling towards him. He bends and snatches it up, sliding it into his pocket; and in straightening, his eyes fall on Drystan where he lounges at his ease. Swiftly, they dart away, searching the crowd and almost at once find Alarth - by his height he must always stand out in this town. And the boy stands there frozen, caught between two opposing forces.


"Tisn't!" A woman's voice rises to a shout and she turns to the crowd for help, shoving a crumb of the pie piece she holds almost under Alarth's nose. "Here. Taste this and tell me it isn't the best pie you've ever had," she demands, putting both hands on her hips and glaring at him as if he himself were the one who had disagreed with her.


At the trinket stall Randel picks up a glittery brooch, turning it over in her hands. She gives a wistful sigh before putting it down and picking up another, oblivious for the moment to the plundered potato, hubbub and tempting scents around her.


Perhaps sensing Toby's gaze, the Ranger's silvery stare is fixed upon the boy. Yet for now it holds no pressing purpose, anger nor anything. It's even kind if one'd dare to go so further. He probably didn't see whatever the lad pocketed.
But his attention quickly flickers around the crowd, almot idly, to meet first the shiny ornaments Randel examined and in another round, Drystan. Thus, his face darkens.


Ignored. The woman's eyes snap dangerously and she huffs a great breath out, glaring at the oblivious ranger for a moment longer before turning away. "See?" she says to her companions. "He's so certain he doesn't even need to taste it. I'm voting for this one." Her tone says something more: You had better as well! And jaw thrust out pugnaciously, she snatches up a pebble and marches for the jar.


Toby's sudden stillness is as useful as a hunting dog, pointing to prey. The black-eyed man follows the trail of the boy's attention, to the inhospitable Ranger's gaze. Drystan smiles faintly, a crooked smirk, and languidly touches his temple in courteous greeting.


Caught by the ranger's gaze, like a rabbit paralyzed before a snake, Toby stands ensnared. Until at last Alarth glances onwards and the boy surfaces with a deep breath. He looks hurriedly about him once again, then slides through the crowd towards the pie stall, reaching out for a slice.


As the woman continues speaking, Alarth seems to give in, glancing at her and offering a smile, "It smells nice, aye. Tho' I say, let the boy taste it." he points with his chin Toby, taking a step backward to open a little of room for the boy to come nigh.
And as he does so, despite all care he had, his attention had once again been focused upon Drystan. And a foot ends up under his own: as the man pulls it out, bumps on a lady that bumps on another lad, that finally steps backwards blindly, toward Randel.
Oops.


An opening magically appears before him and Toby takes instant advantage. No matter that he is now nearer Alarth than before, no matter that Drystan waits in mysterious silence behind him; the smell of the warm pastries over-rides all. He crams a piece of each one offered into his pocket, the last one into his mouth, and turns back the way he had come.
"Hey!" says an indignant voice behind him. "You gotta vote!"


Lost in fond reverie as she holds the bauble against her dress, Randel lets out an ungainly shriek as she is rudely jostled. Whipping around, she glares at the lad who bumped her.


The Ranger's hand comes down toward Toby's shoulder, intenting to push him lightly toward who cried for a vote. Softly he says, "Vote, Toby.". Yet he then seems to acknowledge the small mess he has started and straightens up, offering a loud 'apologise', that is not carried very far, due the crowd's noise.
Drystan's apparently forgotten now.


Drystan pushes himself upright without haste, disengaging lazily from the bakery wall. Winding his way gracefully through the crowd, he makes his way towards Toby. Too late. The man blinks, cocking his head slowly to one side as the Ranger intervenes.

Well enough. His path alters, leading him to the bauble-gazer's side. "This clumsy boy bothering you, miss?"


A hand comes down on his shoulder and Toby twists around wildly, ducking out from under the hold and running. Or trying to. With his head turned behind him and his hand in his pocket, he rams into the first person he meets. Not three steps from the Ranger he was trying to flee, he stumbles and crashes to the ground. Outraged cries rise all around him, and the portly man he nearly ran over reaches a meaty hand down and twists it in the boy's collar, lifting him bodily to his feet. "Whaddya think yer doing?" he thunders. "Never heard of watching yer step?" With each word, he gives the lad a shake.


A pair of strides and some 'excuse me's take Alarth close to the lad. He doesn't say anything to the old man, letting Toby be shaken. Nor he speaks word to the very Toby. He simply stares at the lad, perhaps even meeting his gaze.


With a half-curtsey to the black-booted man, Randel begins coyly, "Not really, ..." but her simpering smile becomes more of a mistrustful grimace; perhaps if jostling disturbs Randel, Outsiders do even more.


The sudden disturbance around Toby catches her attention, and she turns to look in its direction. Putting the trinket down, she hefts her basket again and inches in the direction of the Pie Stall.


One hand is crammed into a pocket, protecting the precious loot; the other goes automatically to Toby's hip, clamping around the hilt of his dagger, when an intent silver gaze makes itself most explicit. There is defiance in the brown eyes that meet Alarth's for a jostled moment, then the blade slides back into its sheath and Toby kicks out with his bare feet instead. This gentleman, for all his girth, is apparently fairly tender of skin, as he drops the boy and yelps in pain. Toby takes instant advantage of his opportunity to sidle around behind Alarth and dive for the nearest opening in the crowd.


Alas, the delicate simpering is wasted. All intents and purposes the Outsider might have bent towards the jostled lass are forgotten the moment the Angry Man's voice is raised. Drystan's head turns, dark eyes narrowing as he swims through the press of people towards the boy's struggle - and the Ranger standing idly by.


"See you in jail, young ruffian." The words come from Alarth. And are headed to Toby. The Ranger doesn't seem concerned to chase the boy, instead kneeling to offer aid to the old man.
Thus, he disapears from sight. But he certainly watches... If he survives the mess of feet, certainly.


"... in jail..." the words echo through the hubbub of the crowd and, were any watching to see, bring a momentary look of lostness, of some trust betrayed to the boy's brown eyes. They harden a bare second later and the moment is gone, and so is Toby - at least from that section of the market. Wriggling like an eel through the crowd, he pauses some little distance away to eat his next piece of pie in relative peace.


"Thank ye, sir," the kicked man says gruffly. "Didn't hurt me bad, just a tender spot on me shinbone there." He turns to glower after the vanished boy, then shrugs a massive heavy shrug and turns towards the contest himself.


"Are you hurt?" a man's silken voice inquires, peace truly being relative. Drystan moves silently to intercept the escapee, from the crowd's edge where he waited.


The upheaval apparently over and her unwieldy basket proving a hindrance, Randel stops at a nearer stall instead. She puts her basket down and looks over the wares, before picking up a pot of raspberry jam, then one of rhubarb jam; the contents of both glow like rubies in the autumn sun. "Rhubarb or raspberry? Rhubarb or raspberry?" the Bree woman mutters.


For the second time that day, Toby freezes in place. Suspicious eyes widen, turning towards Drystan, then back to the crowd, and for a moment it seems as though Toby will turn to flight yet again. Then he shakes his head, no, and swallows.


"Rhubarb or raspberry?" murmurs Randel to herself.


"Raspberry, I allus say," whispers a confidential voice at Randel's side. "Rhubarb is such a common sort of fruit." A little lady, bright black eyes glimmering with the excitement of the day, peers upwards and nods decidedly.


"Good." Drystan ducks his head, reaching down with a gloved hand to gently tip up the boy's chin. "Why are you so frightened, Master Appledore? Didn't steal anything, did you?"


"No," Toby says defensively, but his eyes slide away from Drystan's. "They was free, them pies. All of them. Anybody what wants a bit can have it."


Randel nods thoughtfully. "Aye, that rhubarb is, if you could call it fruit. Raspberry, then." She puts the pots down and digs in her pocket for a coin. Catching sight of the dark-haired man with Toby, she stops and frowns. "There's that Toby lad," she tells the stallkeeper in an undertone. "Ain't nobody taught 'im not to talk with Outsiders."


"Then why are you frightened?" Breath clouding into the grey day, Drystan guides the boy's face back to his, voice soft as rain. "Was it the Ranger? Your friends are concerned for you, you know."


"Good, good," continues Randel's new friend. "You won't regret it, them raspberries is the best they've ever been, if I do say so myself." She leans across the counter, resting her small pointy chin on one palm. "Tsk." She clucks a tongue and shakes her head. "He ought to know better, he ought. Outsiders are plum dangerous and just not to be trusted, not none of 'em."


"I ain't!" Toby says, defensively. "I just..." his eyes flicker up and then drop again and he mutters something inaudibly before his voice raises again. "Ain't got no friends."


Randel nods, shooting the pair a disapproving glance. "Well, I'll be back for another pot if my aunt Hepzibah takes a fancy to this one," she smiles. Finding no space in her bulging basket, she clutches the jam in her free hand and steps away toward the Pony.


"You do that!" the shopkeeper calls shrilly after Randel. "You can't beat my raspberry preserves!" Job done, she settles back onto her stool and waits for the next victim... customer... client to arrive.


The festival eddies, breaking around man and boy and giving them berth. Drystan's hand falls to his companion's shoulder, a brow arching as he shakes his head. "Not so. A friend of yours came to me for help, Master Appledore."


Toby blinks. "..you?" he stammers. "Came to you? Who?" The utter astonishment in his voice is replaced swiftly by something that might be fear, despite his earlier denial of it. "I didn't say nothing, honest I didn't."


Drystan impassively searches the boy's face, his head tilted in thought. "Curious. He certainly seemed to know me. And quite distraught he was, with fear for you, lad."


"I - I didn't, I never said nothing," Toby insists. "Who? And why was he afraid for me?" The pie in his clenched hand crumbles away, small pieces dropping one after another to the ground to be trampled underfoot.


"Good Master ... Heatherseed, I believe it was." Drystan idly watches the crumbs fall, then flicks a (vaguely amused) glance back to the boy's face. "That one is a loyal friend, isn't he? Fierce and ... fragile ... all at once. He fears the Tall Folk will do you harm, yet was brave enough to come seeking my aid."


"Elias?" Apprehension is forgotten in open-mouthed astonishment. "But I told him.." he stops, hesitates and then continues, ".. to stay out of my business."


Drystan lifts one shoulder in a mild shrug, briefly scanning the crowd. "Friends rarely do. Particularly when they fear a pending peril."


"But," Toby persists, a faint flicker of relief smoothing across his face, "Why was he worried about.. them?" He shifts his bare feet on the chill paving stones and abruptly remembering his pastry samples, shoves one into his mouth and chews. A strange expression crosses his face...


"That," Drystan replies, pensive gaze flickering over the milling figures, "You must ask him. But I suspect it is their constant presence at your heels. I gather he wants to protect you - as do I. Remember my words, and be wary of that folk." He releases the boy's shoulder with a swift, reassuring squeeze. "Those who would see you unharmed, are watching."


An uncommon hardness, uncommon for the sadness behind it, turns the boy's brown eyes to stone. "Ah thoo," he mumbles, then swallows hard and repeats it, very quietly. "I do." His head drops, eyelids veiling the betraying emotions.


The quiet misery rises from the boy like a fever's heat, drawing contemplation to Drystan's brow. "Do what I ask," he soothes, softly, "And you will be safe." The hooded man steps back, then hesitates. In a glimmering, a coin flashes, and is flicked to the boy. "And buy a coat, lad. That shirt is an eyesore."


Toby nods, still without looking up. There is a resignation, a bendingness to his attitude now so different from his normal prickly defiant meeting of any and all. Then a flash catches his eye and swifter than thought, his hand leaps up to snatch the coin from the air. "It's new," he protests, feebly. "I just had.. had to take the buttons off." He glances down at himself. "And, well, I .." his voice drops. "I didn't want no one to recognize it, see, so I turned it inside out."


"Fine." Drystan breathes a low, knowing chuckle and steps back into the human river. "But buy a coat. And Toby!" he adds, as the crowd swallows him. "Have a care for your impetuous friend ..."


Toby opens his fingers and examines the coin and his eyes widen, lifting to follow Drystan through the market as long as he can be seen.