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Logs

Little brother

Tags: Brev,  Caoimhe,  bandit cook

Short Summary: In which Brev meets a relative he didn't know he had. And a bandit cook explains why blood is a Bad Thing
Date (real-life): 2010-08-27
Scene Location: Barren Country: Near the Midgewater Marshes
Date (in-game): October 3050
Time of Day: Dawn
Barren Country: Near the Midgewater Marshes

The landscape here is featureless and dull. A few sparse grasses cover the flat plains that stretch on to the north and the west. To the south, the trees of the Chetwood forest are visible, yet are some distance off. Eastward, the plains crash headlong into the mess of the Midgewater Marshes, with the land getting less and less solid the closer one gets to the swamps and bogs of Midgewater. A faint path leads away to the west, though who or what could have made it in this desolate country is not a thought to dwell on...

Obvious exits:
West and East

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                      Dunland Time and Weather Forecast
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Real Time is:       Fri Aug 27 15:01:13 2010
IC weather is:      Wind:  - Clouds: sparse
IC Moon is:         Waxing gibbous
IC time is:         Dawn
IC date is:         October in the year 3050.

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It's a chill October dawn, and the mists seeping from the Midgewater Marshes wreathe the land in shadow. From pool and reed thicket come the sound of rustling and splashing, as the marshes' usual denizens go about their business. This late in the season the midges are less of a problem, but there's still a few hardy specimens to plague the traveller.

It is against this backdrop that one particular group of bandits have chosen to set their camp. Watchers have been set at the perimeter, crouching in the lee of a rock or hiding behind a bush. Most of those lucky enough not to have drawn sentry duty still lie about snoring, in bedrolls beneath draped tarpaulins or simply wrapped in their cloaks. Brev, however, is already awake, and sits in a half-crouch tending the fire. A few glinting eyes watch him suspiciously. The recent incident on the potato farm speaks little for his sincerity.

[Caoimhe(#31517)] Another early riser is the scrawniest and smallest of this lot, a broken-voiced youth with his straw-colored hair mostly hidden beneath a cap. He's curled up on a bedroll, legs tucked beneath him, sharpening a blade against a small stone with careful fingers. As he works, he breathes in the autumn mist slowly, and exhales, softly muttering under his breath. The shrill cry of a hawk descending causes Caoimhe to look up, and to reveal the only feature that might betray her identity to anyone she's known before: her fey, light eyes. Following the hawk no longer, her gaze moves to Brev.

Brev sets another branch on the fire and rises, massaging at his right leg. As it is, he doesn't appear to have noticed the new arrival, for he turns his back and holds his hands to the blaze. "Kiern-damned bogs," he grunts sourly, then stoops again and starts rooting in the ashes with a stick. "And nothing to eat this morn but damn taters ..."

It's only the second time he looks up that his eyes fall on the straw-headed lad. He blinks, rubbing a tired hand across his face and leaving a smudge of ash on his cheek. "Didn't see you here last night." The words are evenly spoken.

[Caoimhe(#31517)] "At least damn taters are better than plain taters?" Caoimhe returns in a voice that's much different than her normal soft one. She's had practice, it might seem. She sheaths her knife and rises, revealing more of her tattered boy's costume in the process, something borrowed from her brother that's much too long in sleeves and legs. "That's because I arrived in the middle of it, brother," Caoimhe replies, the word a poor substitution for 'lover.'

[Nob(#16122)] "Y'ought t'be glad we got taters," grunts the cook. "I keeps saying, we got t'do something with all these fellers coming in. Loafin' around ain't never made nobody rich, nor fed them neither. It's all very well going about saying how we ought to 'Take Over Bree' and have a 'Glorious End', but look at them!" He waves an arm around the camp. "Look at 'em!"

Brother? Brev can't help it; one brow shoots up. Then, lest any one has noticed, he yawns loudly and knuckles at his eyes; by the time he's done his face is calm. He snorts. "Aye, sounds about right. Wait till someone else's done all the hard work ..." Striding over to his 'brother' - well, more like limping, actually, he's favouring the right leg a bit - he lifts a hand and aims a half-hearted clout at the straw-headed youth's head. "Brother?" he hisses, under cover of the gesture; and then, very softly, "name?"

He turns to the cook with a scowl. "Loafing? Some of us were out lifting you those damn taters. You had a better idea?"

[Nob(#16122)] "Yeah!" The cook glares back. "We ought t'be off /doing/ something. Sure, sure," he says placatingly. "The taters was good. Glad we got 'em. But how long're we gonna just hang out here?" He doesn't seem to expect much of an answer from Brev or his brother - his words have the sound of a long-worn argument.

[Caoimhe(#31517)] Checking the sleeping faces of others nearby, Caoimhe deems it safe enough to give a huge, toothy grin to Brev as she ducks out of the way of his halfhearted swing. "Brother. Of course. Shay." Caoimhe readily gives a name- the slight note of warmth in her voice, even through the accent, suggests that she's enjoying this too much. She watches the cook next and wonders, "Will mine be ready soon?" still sounding quite cheery.

Brev tilts his head as he considers the cook's query. "I'd say .. oh, about two days. That's how long it'll take someone to figure out where we're at. Not the smartest, townfolk. 'Course, there's nothing to stop you doing something glorious first. Boss might not like it - say, where is the Boss?" He glances round as though the thought had just occurred to him.

When his straw-headed companion ducks the blow, Brev gives a resigned-sounding sigh. "One of these days, runt - hey, Shay, I managed to hit something the other night." He makes it into a boast, then, when there's a snigger from one of the watchers, rounds on them with a scowl. "So I lied about my prowess with a spear. Man can dream, can't he?" He's carefully not looking at his 'brother' too much.

[Nob(#16122)] "Well, we shouldn't ought t'be just sitting here waiting for them to come," the cook replies grumpily. He kicks a potato out of the coals toward 'Shay', saying, "Don't burn yourself," in a voice that sounds like he is wishing the opposite.

And giving Brev a dirty look, he adds, "I didn't say /I/ wanted t'go do Glorious things. Glorious things genrally mean Dead people. But there's all them people out there waiting to be robbed, and we're sitting here eating /taters/!"

[Nob(#16122)] He ignores the question about the Boss.

[Caoimhe(#31517)] It's a more worried, cautious glance that Brev gets from this admission to his 'brother.' Caoimhe frowns slightly as she prompts, "You hit -what-, exactly?" Then she's getting to her feet again, prompted by what, no one can be sure. "Just a moment- I'll be back for taters," she says hastily, and slinks off toward the treeline at a hurried pace.

"To give us the strength to rob them," Brev retorts to the cook. "Traffic on East Road's been thin of late. Maybe should head west, catch some of the r- the Little Folk. They'd have rich pickings."

He tenses, almost imperceptibly, at 'Shay's' question. "Some farmwhelp." He's trying to sound casual. "And, uh-" He's saved from continuing by the straw-headed figure's dash for the trees. He sniggers, and announces loudly, "Just don't get downwind." He reaches down stiffly to pick up the discarded potato.

[Nob(#16122)] "West?" the cook looks up, curious, from digging through the ashes with a stick. "Them hobbits, you means? They're short enough, for sure. Shouldn't cause too much trouble."

Brev frowns at the comment, or perhaps just at the blackened potato he's trying to peel. He hisses as the crust breaks and steam rises. "How d'you mean? Do we want trouble?" The query is casual, although he does glance up.

[Nob(#16122)] "Want trouble?" The cook snorts. "Nobody as is sane wants trouble. Find the easiest pickings, and the most for it, that's what I say. If these here wester hobbits have the goods, I think we ought t'go pay 'em a visit." He grins at Brev, reveal a few broken teeth. "Little folk like that, y'don't even got t'hurt 'em hardly or nothing." He mimes picking up a hobbit, to the guffaws of those watching. "Stuff 'em in a sack or other, and take yer time."

[Nob(#16122)] "Yer just a wuss, cookie," scoffs one of the men sprawled nearby. "Squeamish," he tells Brev. "'E don' like blood." He sniggers, then holds up both hands in a placating movement as the cook glares at him.

"Y'don't /have/ t'eat, you know," he threatens.

Brev grins back at the cook. "Figure even I could do that. Though not sure even a weasel like myself would fit down one of their bloody rabbit-holes. Fine, you can tell the Boss." He busies himself in eating morsels of potato as fast as they cool.

At the fellow bandit's revelation, the corners of his mouth twitch. "And there I was wondering why we never have meat for the pot. Was going to offer to go hunting, even."

[Nob(#16122)] "It's just smarts," the cook says with dignity. "F'you don't hurt nobody bad, they pouts over their lost silverwares or whatevers a couple days, and then gives up. F'you chops up Baby Boy Throttlebottom, they comes after you with blood in their eyes, and then you've had it." He looks over at Brev, while several others gawk as well. "You? F'you hunt as good as you fight with that spear, we better get used t'taters!" There is muffled (and outright) snickering at this heavy-handed joke.

Brev grins good-naturedly at the snickers. "Can't deny I need the practise," he returns. "'Sides, there's other means of hunting. Snares, net ... I'm good at /finding/ game." He takes a last mouthful of potato, then flings the blackened skin that's left over his shoulder. "Guess little brother will have to go hungry."

[Nob(#16122)] The cook grins again, and walks towards Brev, finally getting close enough to lean over and breathe heavily in his ear. "You bring me some nice li'l rabbits," he whispers. "I'll save us'n th'bones."

Brev holds his breath, and his ground, as the cook comes closer than he'd like. When the whisper is done he turns his head enough to give the fellow a grin - yes? no? It could mean anything really. Then he sidles away. "Think I'll go and see if there's anything dry enough to burn in this Kiernforsaken place. Oh, and check on the runt. Wouldn't do for him to make it this far then fall down some bloody bog-hole."

Date added: 2010-09-01 04:58:32    Hits: 125
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