The Sword of a Million Men - Chapter I
It is a fact that men of great virtue avoid drink and song as much as one possibly can. That he spends long hours in quiet worship and gives constant thanks to whatever deity is his patron. A fact that seemed lost to Count Getrint, Lord of the Sleetplains and protector of those who call such lands their home. Slesal was lost in such things as drink and song and much more than that. The Skald's music was loud and mighty, so much so that one walking the dirt streets of the town could hear it clearly from the wooden castle. The streets may have lacked many torches and similar sources of light, but despite that and the cold, dark night, one could see easily thanks to the many, many lights coming from the castle. One could even feel the warmth coming from the sturdy albeit unsophisticated structure from as far away as the town's entrance. Many of the miners who walked to the dismal tavern in hopes of forgetting their lot in life, and the many who lay themselves to bed, only can dream of such pleasures. They can only imagine how sweet the wine must taste, how wonderful the food must be, how pretty the whores must have been, many would kill to sit where Taran sat, inside the den of pleasures and parties, a cup of Plousatine wine in his paw. He, however, chose to imagine instead of interact with what was around him, but not as the miners did; he imagined bashing the Skald's face repeatedly into the wall until it was nothing but a fine mush. He imagined forcing the mess of moderately wealthy people out in a frantic rush of fear, and afterward after the mass retreat of the faux-silk-covered crowd, that he would lay upon a decent bed, and cuddle up with Rowen.
But Rowen was away, talking pay with Getrint, although he imagined how difficult speaking with an undoubtedly drunk lord must be, so was very much thankful his Fox handled negotiations. Hunched over in his chair, the wolf stared at his rose-colored drink, sometimes glancing at the crowd, being quick to force his blue eyes away from them. He was hot but refused to remove his cloak, the thick green woolen layers were ideal for protecting one from the cold winds of Ausenbak, but did little but promote uncomfortableness indoors. But he had no doubt revealing any part of himself would only gain criticism and mockery from those around him. His muscles wouldn't be big enough, despite already being as large as a soldier's, his fur would look weird, he was positive, and so he still wore the cloak.
-
Rowen had met many dreadful men in his twenty-five years of life, but he didn't hate any one man more than what he referred to as the 'rich pig archetype' and considering Lord Getrint himself was both decently rich and a literal pig, Rowan didn't much enjoy his company. He didn't much enjoy being cold either, so it was in his and his lover's endless luck that they both were stuck in the coldest country on the continent, Ausenbak. Even better that they found themselves in the Sleetlands, the county closest to the nearly-uninhabitable Ice-kissed mountains, meaning the snow was endless and the cold was just steps away from unlivable. And yet Getrint was able to afford parties that, for this part of the continent, was extravagant, and wine imported from the far eastern empire of Plousitine; suspicious, but not particularly important to the fox.
He waited patiently, holding a smile that was part fake and part real, taking gentle sips of his wine as he stood just feet away from Getrint. The pig's belly swung proudly with every word it seemed, jiggling like a Plousian belly dancer. The large grey and silver doublet he wore barely fit him, particularly the area of the tummy seemed to protest his size. He was in stark contrast to the slender, almost feminine Rowen. The brown leather pants seemed to compliment his form well, especially at the rear. His leather jerkin buttoned closed, with a grey undershirt beneath that, its long sleeves covering his orange-furred arms.
What the count was talking about Rowen couldn't say, he was too busy waiting for the perfect opportunity to ask for his pay. He could ask outright, but knowing the count's type, it was safer to wait. He was paying little attention to Rowen, laughing and talking so loud it bordered on shouting, speaking with his equally heavy friends while occasionally turning to slap a meaty hand on Rowen's chest while laughing madly, Rowen always made sure to chuckle and smile. It may have been hours, the fox preferred to not consider the time that passed, before the pig finally turned fully his way and said: "Oh yes, I forgot about your reward!" Absentmindedly he waved his hand, commanding his two friends and fellow pigs to leave.
"Come with me to my study!"
The study was messy, very messy. The smell of uneaten food on the verge of rotting and cups and bowls sitting absently on the wine-stained carpet truly disgusted Rowen.
"My study is a little dirty, the busy life of a count ensures it stays that way." Getrint sighed as he eased down into the large chair behind his disgusting desk. For a second, the mess and smell got to Rowen and he let an honest thought fly.
"Why not have the servants clean this up?"
Immediately he mentally cursed himself, his paws balling into fists for a brief moment as he stood before the desk.
Thankfully, the count didn't seem to mind, nor pick up the slightly disgusted tone in his voice.
"Oh bloody servants, I wouldn't trust one of those lower-class bug-fucks anywhere near my study. They'd rummage around and steal my coin! Not that I would expect you to understand, being a man of lower stature yourself."
The Fox's smile flicked slightly, but again, the count failed to notice the negativity.
"Now, as soon as you get your well-earned coin, I may get back to my party."
Gerint ran a hand along his neck, eventually finding and gripping a golden chain that he struggled slightly to pull over his head. At the end of the necklace hung a golden key with a single small diamond embedded into its handle. He fumbled the lower drawer of his desk before unlocking it. Cursing as he reached around for what he was looking for in the large container. Pulling a small bag halfway out, he grumbled to himself "No, that's not it." before stuffing it back away. It felt like some time before he produced what he was looking for: a small leather pouch with a small scrap of parchment paper saying 'for that bounty' written on it.
"Here you are Robin, one-hundred and fifty silver stamps!" The pig smiled, tossing the pouch on his desk and before the fox.
This time, Rowen did frown.
"It's Rowen.... My lord?" He asked, leaning in as if he was an old man who was hard at hearing.
"One-hundred and fifty silver stamps?" He parroted, unable to mask his surprise.
"Forgive me if I seem bold your Lordship, but I believe me, my associate, and your lordship had agreed upon three-hundred silver stamps?"
"Yes." The pig said, leaning back in his chair.
"We had. But I'm sure you and your associate would agree that this is a wondrous party! I, in my greatness, have allowed both of you to drink of my wine and dine of my food. This is such a gift I give to very few outside of those of my own class. If anything, I should not even give you this much for having such an honor. But you two did do a fantastic job, and I am kind, some say to a fault!"
Rowen wasn't sure if he was shocked, angry, or saddened, he supposed all three at once. But despite his natural urge, he was just able to force a growl back in his throat.
"Y-yes, your lordship is very kind. I and my associate thank you very much, both for such an honor as to dine within your keep and for the honest coin,"
Getrint chuckled at that. "Not totally honest, but just enough. Now, I feel that it is time for you and your gloomy friend to leave, our wonderful inn should suit you fine!"
"Yes." Rowen bowed. Just as his paw reached for the pouch, just as it hovered over it, Getrint with shocking speed grabbed Rowen's wrist. Rowen was surprised but just barely managed to fight off the urge to pull away.
"I suppose you deserve a tip." Letting go of the fox, he once again leaned back in his chair and reached into the open drawer; the fox's paw still hovering nervously over the small leather pouch.
With a smile, the pig tossed something at Rowen, something that he instinctively caught. Opening his paw, a single copper stamp coin looked back at him.
"Oh how I spoil those who work for me, have a good night Robin,"
With some caution he picked up the bag, placing the single coin among the others inside it.
"Thank you very much, my lord."
-
Taran slumped forwards, he felt heavy, tired. Somehow despite the constant noise, he found himself dozing off, nearly outright falling asleep more than once, nearly dropping the empty cup of wine that he had no interest in filling. At least, his sleepiness distracted him from the need to leave the party, the few awful times he snapped away from his tiredness and remembered that he hated where he was, an almost desperate need to find Rowen and run took over. Thankfully, this didn't last long as the cycle started over again. It was there in his humble corner, waiting, that he heard a voice directed at him, something that jerked him upwards and caused him to drop the cup, the iron clanking harshly against the wooden floor.
"Hiding like a scared pup, such a cute thing you are!"
It was a woman, a rabbit, tall and slim, sporting an emerald green dress that revealed her upper chest and back, just above her rather perky breasts. Those milk-bags seemed to be staring at Taran, he didn't like it. A golden chain connected to one side of the dress' breast and reached behind her neck and connected to the other, seemingly the only thing holding it up other than a tight belt around her hourglass-shaped waist. Taran looked up at her, confused and slightly worried, choosing to respond with a grumble that sounded vaguely like "Leave me alone, please."
"Aww, poor thing can barely speak... I know how to fix a poor nervous boy right up." She took a step forward, making him feel slightly trapped. She was directly in front of him, leaving little room to slip out of the chair and away from her, with the rabbit blocking the front and leaving little room of movement to his sides, and a wall behind him.
"From what little I can make out of you around all that *unfortunate* clothing, you aren't from here... likely not from Ausenbak either. Full-blooded Ausen wolves are grey and black, they also don't mind the cold as one born into the snow can naturally take it far better than one who cannot, an Ausen wouldn't be wearing so many fabrics."
Taran pushed his back into the plush back of his chair, he gripped both paws on the arms tightly, his nerves only getting worse every second the women stuck around.
Such a reaction wasn't lost on the rabbit, who chuckled and pressed forward, even more so, touching her legs to his, and leaning over to meet close to face-level with him.
"I'm not from here either. Lady Arevil... that's right, nobility, all the way from the Braskius Hegemony... the lands of coin, trade, city-states, and...." She leaned in closer, almost to the point of laying on top of the wolf.
"Lovers." Her whisper was filled with obvious lust, her paw drifted downwards, downwards, every inch lower causing the black wolf's nerves to build, build into he was frozen, helpless, he didn't know what to do!
And then she touched *it*. Fingertips trailing across his crotch, rubbing at his sheath, the instrument only protected from her bare paws due to his pants. He gasped, not in pleasure, but shock, shock, disgusted, and disbelief. In a total panic, he brought both paws up and pushed Lady Arevil away. It was her turn to be shocked, she landed harshly on her rump yelping more in surprise than anything else.
The lady was quiet, simply staring at Taran in awed disbelief, he avoided her eyes, feeling both violated and scared. Everyone was looking, the party grew nearly silent, save for the barks and bluster of attendees too drunk to understand that they shouldn't be talking. For a brief second, it continued like this, until, with the dignity, only a woman with countless hours of training in how to act as a noble, picked herself up and stood tall.
To the shock of everyone, she laughed a sweet and gentle laugh that could calm entire rooms in its innocence and love.
"Oh, Fredrick you silly boy!"
Taran's face went from pure worry to pure confusion, no one, however, was looking at him, all eyes were upon the lady.
"Me and my dear Fredrick here have known each other since we were children... oh, I'm thirsty, can someone be a dear and give me a drink?" It didn't take much longer than a second for a servant to hand her a cup of wine.
"Thank you," She smiled as the deer servant bowed and quickly scampered away.
"Now... yes, as I was saying. Fredrick is a dear sweet friend and we were simply reminiscing about the past! You all see I remember we were in a similar position as children to what you saw there, and he, not knowing his own strength, pushed me away playfully!"
The story was hard to buy, but everyone seemed to be buying it anyway.
"We were reenacting this event, it's an old custom of friendship to reenact wonderous times of the past between friends back in Braskius!"
"Such an interesting culture!" The booming voice of Lord Getrint declared happily, he seemed to believe it too. Behind him was Rowen, to his utter frustration he had to follow the lord and listen to his ramblings all the way back to the main room.
Rowen and Taran looked eyes for a second, and the fox nodded in understanding of a mutual want to leave the caste as soon as possible.
"Well sweet Fredrick, I must parlay with the other guests, so if you will excuse me!" She bowed towards Taran. The wolf finally managed to speak, saying: "T-Thank you, my lady, it w-was an honor to see you again."
-
"So, what was that about-"
The words barely left Rowen's lips before he was cut off by a sudden and tight hug from Taran. The wolf had made sure to look around for any people on the outside of the castle, thankfully it was just buildings and snow.
"I-I was... she... it was...." Taran seemed close to panic, perhaps tears.
"It's okay, we're out of there, let's head over to the inn," He soothed the wolf, gently rubbing a paw down his back, they hugged tighter.
"You!" A posh and angry voice caused the two to break their hug suddenly and much to the disappointment of both. A somewhat large boar, chainmail under a thick fur coat. His left tusk was cut cleanly in half, where the top pointy part went the two didn't know or care.
The boar pointed a meaty finger at Taran, who simply stood there, looking slightly annoyed that the hug was ruined.
"You disrespected the lady Arevil! If not for her quick thinking, she would have been embarrassed before Count Getrint and his entire party!"
Taran took a step forward, gritting his teeth, he stared down the boar, anger very evident.
"And what of it?" He growled quietly.
The posh boar didn't seem fazed by his threatening manner, he took a step forward as well, placing a hand on his sword's hilt, ready to pull it free when needed.
"You filthy monster, she is a lady of a noble house and you... you're just a sick idiot!" He screamed, eyes bulging with anger and the grip on his sword's hilt grew so hard as to turn the flesh under his fur white.
"Enough!" A new but familiar voice shot out from behind the boar, who forgot his anger, turned around, and kneeled.
The rabbit, Lady Arevil, stepped out of the door, shutting it behind her. Now wrapped in a long fur coat. Ignoring her boar guard, she looked at the wolf and fox, Taran immediately felt his nervousness coming back to him; thankfully not nearly as bad as before however, this anxiety was comparatively subtle, more so in response to the recent memory than the women herself.
The lady and the two stared at each other for a time, many seconds passed before she finally spoke up.
"I... would like to apologize for my behavior. I suppose being in a place where every man you meet treats you like some exotic flower, well, that tends to mess a bit with your expectations I suppose,"
She dipped her head slightly in a soft bow. "I pushed you beyond the right of even a noble, and I am deeply sorry,"
"I... umm, it's alright," Taran stammered. Rowen laid a paw on his shoulder, which helped at least somewhat with the whole awkward affair.
Finally, her eyes fell upon the still kneeling boar, he was clearly uncomfortable.
"Morix, would you please escort me to my carriage?" Morix winced as he rose, his knees horribly stiff. Thankful nonetheless to be granted the right to stand up, he nodded, not waiting to turn and walked off with the Lady Arevil in-toe.
-
"Can you believe that piece of shit!?" Rowen hissed.
The inn room was awful, it was small and dirty. One thin straw-filled bed laid in the corner. The floorboards creaked with every step and were covered in dry mud and grime. Taran stripped off his thick furs and every piece of clothing save for his pants as Rowen stoked the fireplace, all the while growling.
"We agreed on Three-hundred... Three-hundred is nothing for a bastard like him!"
The Fox was in his night-clothes, matching white shirt and pants, baggy and they breathed well.
Taran simply gave him a sympathetic grumble, something Rowen was too angry to notice.
"Just... dammit...." A paw lovingly rested upon a shoulder quickly turned into a hug, Taran pulling Rowen into his arms for a tight embrace.
"I'm so damn tired of us getting sobbed over by low-tier nobles like Getrint," Rowen said, burying his muzzle in the comfort of his lover's neck.
"You'll think of something, we'll get outta here,"
"Yeah... but for once, I want us to leave somewhere feeling like accomplished something... that we haven't done so much just to continue on barely surviving to the next place,"
Taran chuckled softly. "Sometimes, surviving is a damn great accomplishment."
--
Rowen was gone, that was the first thing Taran realized when he slowly opened his eyes. The second thing he noticed was his back felt awful. Sitting up in bed made him grunt softly, reaching a paw to his lower back and rubbing it lightly.
"Damn," he mumbled under his breath. "MIght have been better if I just slept on the bloody floor."
He laid bare feet upon the grimy floor, shuttering as he felt the dirt below them.
"Or, maybe not." he sighed, cursing under his breath as he noticed a rat scurry across the room.
The room... it was so cold, something that the half-naked wolf only realized when he stood up moments later; a sudden chill ripped through his large body and he instinctively wrapped his arms around himself.
"Damn!" He growled, this one much louder than the last. He made a dash for the small stool directly next to the door, reaching for his shirt that lay atop on mess of clothing.
-
Every step that made up the staircase creaked, many damaged to the point that Rowen had an understandable fear of one breaking and he would fall through to whatever was below. If the horrible rotting smell that seemed to be a permanent fixture of the building was to force a guess of possible contents, Rowen would have landed on a corpse or two.
The fox still managed to endure both it and the thick coat of grime that took over every inch of the downstairs bar just as much as it took up every other part of the place. He ordered a drink, more for show than anything else, and sat, leg covered over the other in his chair, nodding politely to the man opposite of the table to him.
Old, missing an eye, and in rags that marked him as a miner, the rat had no trouble in rambling endlessly to Rowen about whatever he fancied: from his boss and the other miners to his back problems. But among it all, sometimes what actually interested the fox into bothering interacting with such a man popped up in his series of noises.
"I tells you this lad, as bad as the foreman is, he ain't that lord of ours!"
For the first time in the whole encounter, the rat brought up Getrint, meaning the bottles and bottles of pisswater that Rowen's been treating the wretched thing were finally getting him drunk. Also for the first time, part of Rowen's plastered on smile became genuine.
The tricky part was always encouraging one to speak further of the topic he needed information on without letting on that he *needed* it. Even a drunk man can understand the value of information, even that seemingly small or common could be to the right person. If Rowen came on too strongly the rat would figure things out and likely either stop talking or ask for coins, neither things he could afford. The fox leaned forward slightly in his chair, perhaps a sympathetic approach would work well here?
"Really? Your boss sounds pretty awful though,"
"Aye!" the rat perked up. "He is. Some of the worst spit of a prick you could find in the Sleetlands!" His whiskers twitched as he brought the large green bottle to his foul lips, taking another large swig of his mead before smashing it back down on the table, rattling the four or five empty bottles sat in front of him.
Rowen considered buying him another drink.... No, it would be better if he finished the current one totally; the effect would be greater, the rat would appreciate it more if another drink wasn't a thing set in stone if he was left not sure if his 'friend' would buy him another after so many already, there needed to be a slight delay.
"But Lord Getrint is a real pox! Fucker doesn't even hire locals to serve him! He don't trusts his own folk! No, the high and mighty gets fuckers from as the next country over to wipe his fat arse and butter his bloody toast!"
Finally, he finished the drink. Not realizing the bottle was empty at first, ready to continue his rants. Frowning when he glanced over to his paw, limpidly grasping the glass. He set it down, picking up another one and eyeing it.
"Allow me. Innkeep, another bottle for my friend here, please!" With a flamboyant flick of his wrist, a couple more copper stamps landed with a *clank* on top of a small pile. The Large boar nodded, timidity coming from out of his bar and slapping a drink onto the table, something that was snatched up just as quickly by the rat.
"T-thanks." He hiccupped, taking yet another drink. "You're an alright lad."
Rowen smiled. "Someone like you works hard to supply the rest of the country with ores and metals, the least I could do as thinks is buy a drink or two!"
The rat squinted his eyes. "Yeah... you're right... you outsiders... we do a fuck of a lot for you!"
His smile flickered. *Dammit!* the fox mentally cursed himself *I got his anger turned on me....*
"If you do all the hard work, what does the Lord do?"
"Oh him!? Getrint spends all the money *we* make on his fucking parties, that and making that shitty 'castle' look more like a Plousitinian whorehouse than what a true Ausen would have!"
The rat shook his head angrily "Fucking strength over pretty shit, that's the heart of Ausenbak!
The old Lord, Getrink's father, he was a pox too, but at least he made sure the castle was fortified if those Snow Leopards came down from the mountains now... well, short work would be made of that damn thing!"
"It seems sturdy, if I may say, my friend," said Rowen.
"About as sturdy as my arse it is! When Getmal ran things it was, but now... it just looks like it. I worked on Slesal a couple times... pullin' parts off of it because the Lord wanted the front to look pretty, no matter if we had the supplies on hand or not. Had to tear down the old dungeon-wing on the castle and some houses just to make Getrink bloody furniture and shit!"
The old staircase creaked roughly, making Rowen glance back towards it, eyes meeting those of Taran, all dressed and wrapped in his fur coat and cloak. The wolf nodded towards him, which made Rowen wink before returning his full attention back to the rambling rat. Taran knew that whenever Rowen fished for information, it was best if he was away, so he simply waved a paw at the innkeeper and walked out the door, the ragged, rotten wood creaking against its hinges as it was opened and shut.
--
There wasn't a lot to see that Taran hadn't already, miners, snow, and wood. But he walked around anyway, studying the same buildings he had already studied thousand times over, nodding at the odd miner or whatever townsmen that passed him, getting ignored in response. Not that it bothered him, a miner's life was an unpleasant and often short one, he understood they had every right to be prickly. It was by a decrypted signpost, the words have worn off long ago, that he heard something. Heavy breathing married to the sounds of light scraping, The wolf just stood there by the sign for a second, before deciding he had little else better to do, he went for the noises. Passing by various broken structures, ruined fences, and the odd pine tree, Taran eventually found the noises. A woman, a husky dressed in the rags of a peasant stood by a corpse hanging alone from a small scaffold, its feet inches from the ground.
With tears frozen on her face, the young lady held a very poor and blunt table knife, desperately trying to cut at the thick rope that was wrapped firmly around the neck of the dead husky's body.
Taran just stood there, not sure of what to do for a moment. Swallowing hard, he eventually was able to say something: "Uh... a-are you okay?"
The girl jumped away from the corpse, leaving it swinging back and forth in the wind. Eyes wide, she struggled with words herself.
"I, P-please, sir, d-don't tell the count, I beg you!"
"W-what are you doing?" Taran asked, despite realizing it was obvious she wanted to get the body down; he simply didn't know what else to say.
"Please, you can't tell Getrint!" she cried.
"I... don't worry, I won't. Is everything okay?"
They stared at each other silently for a brief moment, her eyes darting around constantly as if expecting a force of bandits to suddenly rush out of nowhere. When she found nothing else came, her demeanor relaxed slightly.
"I... he was my husband," She hugged herself, shivering from either the cold, or grief.
"A good man... a loving man. He stole a piece of bread he did, to feed me...." The last word contained a clear sorrow, a deeper note there than in the rest, she nearly choked it seemed before forcing her composure to return once again.
"The Count didn't even give him a trial, just said he was a traitor, said that stealing was as bad as betrayal... he's been up here for a month...."
"A month!?" Taran gasped.
"Aye, a month. I begged Getrint to let me give him a pyre, but he wouldn't let me, said that 'Theives aren't allowed rights, whether living or dead' that prick!"
She was still clutching the knife, it dug so much into her skin that it managed to bleed her paw, something she didn't pay any mind to.
"Let me help you," Taran took a step forward, cautiously pulling his sword from his scabbard.
She looked reluctant but ultimately stepped out of the way. "Please." She said.
A single swipe of the plain but nonetheless sharp blade and the corpse crunched to the ground. Taran then noticed the body was missing boots, he shook his head "Damn vultures." He muttered.
The woman fell upon the body, hugging it and caressing its frozen cheek.
"Thank you, thank you so much, sir!" She cried, embracing the dead man as if he was still alive, ignoring the snow and cold.
Taran prepared to turn away, placing his sword back away, until he stopped himself.
"Uh... do you need help?" Slowly she rose off the body to look at him, a somewhat puzzled look on her face.
"With his passing, need help to give him a proper pyre?"
--
"My Lady Arevil, it is both a shock and honor that you would return to my humble castle!"
Lord Getrint was many things, had many negativities, but among his rarely talked about qualities was how well he was made to make a smile seem genuine, even when his mood was truly not nearly as pleasant. He sat upon a large purple padded chair, the chair was raised slightly above the decorated and large room of Court, ensuring that most would have to look somewhat up to Getrint from where they stood. The rabbit didn't say anything, simply staring back at the pig, the green dress from last night's party replaced with thick furs.
"Count Getrint," Morix, the armor-clad boar guard of the lady Arevil, took a step towards Getrint, bowing his head in respect.
"Forgive me, but the snow of last night proved too great for my lady's carriage to pass safely... we had little choice but to return to your great castle until the snow thins,"
"Well... I would be honored to house such great guests once again... my dear Lady...." Getrint leaned forward, turning his full attention to the rabbit.
"You must tell me, how is your father, I trust you are writing to him?"
Catherine de Arevil was no fool, she knew by the count's gaze, his mannerisms, that his question was a threat. She was to be the good girl and make absolutely sure her father heard only the most positive of things about Getrint and his *hospitality*.
"I would hope that you do, the Sleetlands are dangerous and a pretty summer flower like yourself could meet an awful accident,"
She wouldn't put up with it.
"Lord Getrint, I assure you that if any harm comes to me my dear father - who is in great health - would certainly see the blame fall to you,"
"Well," Getrint said, his smile stayed but slight twitching of the eyes told Catherine he was upset at her resistance.
"It is a good thing that you shall find the utmost of security and safety in my ancestral home, my guardsmen are of a fantastic breed!" He held a hand out to his side, almost instantly a servant ran over, handing his lord a goblet of cold and sweet Plousitine Desert Berry wine.
"So please my Lady, drink more of *my* wine, enjoy more of my food!" The cracks in his diplomatic face started to show, with every mention of 'my' his jolly voice got angrier and angrier. He grit his teeth, letting his smile fall into a frown.
"Thank you Getrint," For the first time she got to the Sleetlands, Catherine smiled.
"That's lord Getrint when you are in my court, you disrespectful bitch!" Getrint's goblet flew out of his hand, clanging to the ground and spilling the expensive, dull-red liquid all over the floor, bits even landing upon Catherine and Morix as well as surrounding guards and servants.
Just as soon as the anger came out, it was pulled back in by the pig and he forced an unconvincing smile back onto his face.
"My Lady, forgive me for such an outburst... it was very peasant of me. Guardsmen Hans, please escort the lady and the knight to the guest rooms."
Getrint could hold on to his emotions better than most noblemen. Frankly, Catherine was a little impressed.
--
The frosted woods was surprisingly peaceful, even despite the constant falling snow. A circle of pine trees surrounded Taran and the woman (That Taran had learned was named Mary) along with a fire pit, covered with a white sheet that had been nailed to the ground with a stick stabbed through it on both sides. Taran held the body of Mary's husband in his arms, having wrapped it in a thick carpet, both to hide the corpse from anyone who might see them, and so Taran didn't have to touch the dead man through direct contact for any long amount of time.
"T-Tom loved this place... he would always light a fire and just think about things here. I would sit in his arms and...." her voice cracked, and she suddenly found her throat was dry, unable to speak about her lost loved one any further.
"J-Just put it down and we can look for wood, please."
Taran nodded, gently laying the carpet down and making sure Mary couldn't see the body, he figured seeing the frozen remains of her husband wasn't something she needed at the moment.
It must have taken a couple hours, maybe longer, to get wood good enough and long enough to build into a small pyre; it took around another hour to actually build the structure.
"It'll be hell to start a fire in this weather," Taran said quietly as he fumbled at a small sack that was attached to his belt, Mary silently staring at him as he did so.
"Here we go," he said, producing a small clear glass bottle with a yellowish green substance inside it.
"What's that?"
"It's called 'Fireseed' it really helps with starting fires," Taran pulled the cork off of the bottle, sending the strong scent of leaves and urine into the air, making Mary's snout crinkle up in disgust.
"Yeah," Taran chuckled. "It isn't very pleasant, but it really works," Taran liberally dripped the substance over every log on the pyre, leaving small puddles of it on every part that could hold it without dripping off into the firepit. When the bottle was empty and he was satisfied, he tossed it back into his brown leather sack.
"I can handle things from here... I would like to be alone for this. Thank you, sir, I can't tell you how important this is!"
She took his paw gently in her own, looking him in the eyes. "Please sir, let me give you this!"
With one hand she still held Taran's while with the other she reached into her pocket, producing a small coin pouch.
"This isn't much, about thirty silver stamps, but please, take it," As soon as she placed it in his paw, Taran put it back in her own.
"Keep it, Miss Mary. I couldn't take money just for doing something any decent man would do,"
"Well," Mary said, placing the coins back into her pocket.
"I suppose there aren't many good men around here."