"Bit of a looker, eh ?" Aarnr's never been embarrassed in his life.  "Never quite sure about Elves ... they're definitely more in tune with the natural world, of course, but there's something too froggin' clean about them for my tastes !"

"That's right !" the priest had very nearly forgotten about all the fun of the second night out of Reme.

"Thou think these owl-bear pig-nuts are odd," he tells Martin, "this hedge-pig was a mix of deer, badger and lion, with burnin' red eyes.  About yea froggin' high," he holds up his hand at about the four foot mark.

"Now that was one pukin' onion-eyed mold-warp that had a taste for Elves - took a big chunk out of Aramil's leg !"  Never mind that the minstrel is only Half-blooded.  "Took a chunk out of it with my sword," he adds proudly, "but the gleepin' creature ensorcelled a bunch of us and made its escape.  Promised to hunt us down, though," he finishes, a note of hopefulness in his tones as he peers ineffectually into the darkness in case it has come to make good on its promise.

"Shandril is fair of face, yes." Martin confirms with a chuckle, "But I wouldn't try to take advantage of it.  Freya's priestesses are trained to use blades to protect their congregations, and to use them well.  And I've heard tell that Shandril's sword, Valkyria, bears a touch of enchantment about it.  Somebody who saw her using it once told me that the edge burns with a light of its own."

The hunter gazes at the fire, "What did this creature look like?  Over towards Reme, you say?  I wouldn't normally go that far west, but it might be worth my while to take a look around there."

Then he slaps a hand against his forehead, startling Hanne who gives him a disapproving look, "Where are my manners?"  He pats a leather bag hanging at his side, and it sloshes a little, "Would you care for a little wine?  Not the best, but it's drinkable."

Fergus listens intently to Martin's description of Shandril, though he offers no further comment.

"It looked pretty much like Aarnr said.  All bits of different animals crammed into the one body.  But it spoke like a man, that was the really creepy bit.  If you're keen on hunting it you shouldn't have to go as far as Reme, it followed us at least half of the way here."

"I'd like some wine, if you've some to spare.  I'd offer you something in return but with the rabbit eaten I've nothing but trail rations."  Fergus didn't drink often but he was happy to do so now.  There didn't look to be enough in the skin to really take the edge off the discomfort of his wounds but it couldn't make things any worse.

"That was froggin' odd," Aarnr agrees with Fergus's remarks regarding the patchwork creature speaking with the voice of a man, though personally he finds undead a lot creepier.

Perversely, the priest waves away Martin's offer of his wineskin with an equable, "Thank thee anyway ... and I'm sure thou are not tryin' to poison us !"  and a broad toothy grin.

While he appreciates the hunter's gesture, he considers what passes for drink in civilised parts is more like something that's passed through considerably less civilised parts, but truth be told, he's already far too heady from the wounds he has suffered and wise enough to know drink would only make it worse.

"Froggin' pig-nut'll be disappointed if thou slay it before we do," he informs Martin.  "But seein' as we're a bit busy, I'll not begrudge thee the kill."

Martin frowns as he considers the description of the strange beast, and starts to hand the wineskin to Fergus.  He stops, suddenly, "This creature?  Could it speak in different voices?  Like a man who mimics his friends or enemies?"

He resumes passing the wine, nodding as he does so, "I see by your faces that it could.  Then you have, indeed, been lucky.  You've faced an owlbear and a leucrotta, and lived to tell of the meetings."

"Or not lucky, for lucky doesn't even begin to describe it."

As Fergus takes the wineskin, Martin dismisses his concerns about repayment with a wave of his hand, "Nonsense, lad, the warmth of the fire, and a few bones for Hanne is fair exchange.  And if I should happen to meet the leucrotta, I'll be happy to pass on your greetings, as I kill the foul thing."

Aarnr beams as Martin marvels at the luck had in stumbling across these creatures. "Thou are not froggin' wrong !" he agrees loudly with the hunter.  "It's a big world and the odds of us runnin' into not one but two of the fen-sucked gudgeons must be ... well, froggin' unlikely !"

"Shows the gleepin' god must be watchin' out for us."   How could Bowbe do otherwise with his priest's constant litany of insults and demands ?!!

"Look-rotter," that word is an unfamiliar one on Aarnr's lips, though the second part of the name indicates some sort of mouldering creature, undoubtedly Tsathogga's spawn as he had thought earlier.  He looks to Fergus to see if his more knowledgeable friend has heard aught of such a beast.

"Aye," Aarnr laughs, though winces yet again as the pains of his wounds bite once more, though it doesn't dissuade the priest from his tack, "if thou see the hell-spawned drab, give it our regards - in its fobbin' gizzards !"

Martin's eyes narrow as he regards Aarnr, "Should you not see somebody about those injuries.  This one... ", he taps the side of his neck, just where it curves into his shoulder, "... has started bleeding again.  If you went and spoke to Shandril, at the temple, and told her I sent you and what happened, I'm sure she'd take care of it."

Fergus looks uncomfortable, and gazes out across the valley, towards where the owlbear lays dead.

This doesn't go unnoticed, "If you'd rather not, I have a little salve that I made myself.  It won't do much for the wounds, but it will take the sting out of them.  And keep flies from chewing at them while you sleep."

Aarnr has warmed to the fellow, and so tones down his response to the suggestion.

"Not a froggin' good idea," he tells Martin with a snort and a loud laugh.  "My god's Bowbe, and if I go crawlin' off to the priestess of some other gleepin' gudgeon, I might as well cut me own fobbin' tongue out for all the attention the puttock'll pay me afterwards when I'm yellin' at him !  Be alright if she happened to be wanderin' by and offered out of the gleekin' kindness of her pribblin' heart, but I guess that's not froggin' likely !"  He grins broadly.

"I'm a bit tired now," Aarnr reluctantly admits, "but come mornin' I'll be up to catchin' Bowbe's ruttish ear and gettin' him to fix me up ... but if ye can spare some of thy salve, I'll thank ye for it - reeky flies are froggin' hard to kill with this !" he nods towards his greatsword.

Martin opens a pouch at his belt and takes out a small earthenware jar with a cloth cover tied in place over the top.  He passes it Aarnr, "Use it sparingly, a small amount goes a long way, and too much goes a long way to leaving you friendless.  I'd be the first to admit that it smells foul, and you like as not wouldn't want to know what's in it.  There's noyhing that'll hurt you, mind, but some of it's not pleasant."

"Dip your finger in some water, and take a small amount of the salve on the wet finger.  Then rub it on the injury.  The water makes the salve spread a little further, and keeps it from sticking to your finger instead of going on the wound."

From the look of it, Aarnr isn't the only one to struggle with the pronunciation of "leucrotta".  Fergus can be seen mouthing the word to himself until he has a fair approximation of the name.

The thought of returning to Fairhill for treatment at the temple raises a welter of emotions in Fergus.  Part of him would very much like to go home and killing an owlbear would be enough to impress many of those who might otherwise criticise his decision to leave.  But it wouldn't be enough for Andar, Fergus doubted anything would.  Better not to be distracted by comforts left behind.  Fergus would return when his task was completed, not before.

Fergus watched with interest as Aarnr and Martin discussed the merits of Martin's salve.  Fergus didn't think it smelled any worse than some of the home remedies he had encountered as a youth.  But, having taken the wine, Fergus didn't feel comfortable accepting more help from the hunter so he left the salve to Aarnr.  Anyway, the big priest looked more sorely wounded to Fergus (though he would concede that it was a close call).

"I can give you a hand if you need Aarnr." Not that it was likely.  The way Aarnr fought all his wounds were to the fore and easily reachable.

Aarnr takes the jar from Martin, unfastening the cloth cover and sniffing it ... and again, when the first pass seems less offensive than the warning warranted.  The owlbear's spore hadn't done much for him either.  Perhaps being raised in a festering swamp will do for a sense of smell.  Besides, he takes the lack of scent as a good sign, as anyone who's seen the flies that gather around a days-old corpse will attest.

"Thank you," the priest expresses his gratitude to the hunter in the manner of civilised folk.  Truth be told, now all the excitement is over, his wounds are paining him considerably, and he's pleased he won't have to fight to the death for the jar, as tradition demands.

And while his instincts are to smear the salve all over him, on the grounds that if a bit is good a lot must be better, he's seen his mother prepare enough meals to know that's not always true where such as herbs and spices are concerned, and elects to follow Martin's guidance.

On the other hand, since his wounds are stiffening up considerably, Aarnr's not too proud to accept Fergus offer of assistance.  "'Preciate it," he nods to his friend, passing over the jar in turn.

As Fergus assists Aarnr in applying the salve, Hanne suddenly lifte her head, ears pricked, and grumbles quietly as she looks towards the crest of the hill, in the general direction of Fairhill.  Martin reaches out to scratch her head, "You hear something, girl?  What is it?  Rabbits?"

After a few moments the dog lowers her head, though her ears remain raised for a little while longer.

"Can't have been anything too worrying then, or she'd've been a mite more skittish about it.  Probably just rabbits, like I said."

"We could have done with a few more froggin' rabbits,"  Aarnr bemoans the luck of the hunters, gritting his teeth as Fergus applies the salve to his neck.  "Perhaps on the morrow we'll have more luck.  Should have plenty of time.  Like as not our friends will be stuffin' themselves with dainty morsels and puttin' their reeky feet up !"

"Reckon she'd catch 'em," the priest opines, eyeing Hanne speculatively.  "Do thou think she'd share ?"

"By the bat-fowling bladder of Bowbe !" he exclaims as the salve begins to take effect.  "That's fobbin' better !"

Fergus takes the jar and reaches for the salve before belatedly remembering to wet his fingers first.  That done, he does his best to dab the salve on those of Aarnr's injuries that the priest cannot easily, or comfortably, reach.

"I think I got them all."

At Hanne's reaction and Martin's comment, Fergus responds "We could try hunting again?  It's a bit dark but we didn't have a dog before.  We might get lucky." He pauses before briefly explaining "I still feel bad that we couldn't offer you dinner."

Martin chuckles at Aarnr's question about the dog's hunting abilities, "I think she's a bit slow to catch rabbits, but she is good at scaring them out to where I can take a shot at them."

He looks up at the darkening sky, "Damned clouds make it hard to judge.  I don't think it's that late yet, it just looks like it.  Or maybe there's a lot more rain coming.  I think we've still got a little time before sunset.  We can hunt a bit, I suppose.  As long as you two are up to it."  He laughs again, "You youngsters don't have the staying power we had in my day.  Had both my legs bitten clean off when I was no older than him," a nod towards Fergus, "and I carried them home for my old Mum to sew them back on.  Then she gave be a sound beating with a leather strap for letting a good pair of britches get torn."

Aarnr roars with laughter at the hunter's boast. "Well then, if thou could drag  thyself home in that condition, I figure I can stir myself to throw stones at some fearsome rabbits !"

"I'm feeling a lot froggin' better now," he nods his thanks to Martin for the salve and Fergus for his assistance in the application thereof, though he drags himself to his feet less easily than he would like, casting doubt on that assertion.  "Who knows, maybe we'll find another froggin' Owlbear !"

Martin gets to his feet, stretching, "Well, you if you didn't have my admiration earlier, you would have now.  You killed your dinner by throwing a rock at it.  You've a good eye and a strong arm, my friend.  I'll stick to my crossbow, if it's all the same to you.  I know where I am with that."

He looks down at Hanne, who has lifted her head to watch him.  "Rabbits, girl!  Find the rabbits!"

The dog stands, shakes herself, and sniffs at the air.  Then she starts heading down the hill towards where Fergus and Aarnr had killed their own rabbit earlier.

Martin watches her go and shakes his head slowly, "Well, I suppose whatever she heard a bit ago, it wasn't a rabbit then."

"Probably pheasants," Aarnr suggests placidly.  The priest is not one to give up on a thought easily.  Though he is a mite distracted as he gains his feet, only to have the world shift disturbingly about him.  As his vision blurs he sees four ... no eight companions !

"Should make it easier to hit a froggin' rabbit, then," the big man mutters, "if there's that froggin' many of them about !"

Martin gives Aarnr an odd look, then sets off down the hill in pursuit of Haane.  Aarnr and Fergus, in turn, follow the hunter.

Sure enough, there are more rabbits in the vale between the hills.  The dimming light has, it seems, encouraged them to come out of their burrows and have a spot of dinner.

Hanne leads the three men directly to the animals, then demonstrates that she is well-trained by laying down where the rabbits can't see her so easily.

Martin raises his crossbow... there is a thump, and the rabbits stir a little nervously.  Except for one of them, which has apparently decided to stop eating and take a little nap.

"One." Martin murmurs, as he reaches for another quarrel.

The dim light's not helping either, but that's but a small consideration in view of the other afflictions Aarnr's currently suffering.  He's pretty sure the traditional cure for being badly mauled is to rest up a bit and lick your wounds (at least till he can demand Bowbe froggin' well do something about them), and not to set off hunting.

Still, while he's here ... as Martin looses his second shaft, the priest looks around for a suitable stone, cradling it in his hand as he picks a likely rabbit amidst those gathered.  There !  That one looking at him with an upturned nose and big floppy ears ... the surly weather-bitten whey-face !

He hefts his missile ...

"Not bad." Martin murmurs cheerfully, as Aarnr's hurled rock takes down another rabbit.

The second quarrel brings the count up to three, and Fergus manages to bag a fourth with another stone.

The remaining rabbits are starting to look a little nervous as Martin chuckles softly, "And to think I thought you two might need some help hunting down a square meal."

A short distance away, the beasts have clearly decided that something is amiss.  They have all stopped eating, and are busy looking about.  Their ears are pricked up, and their noses are twitching furiously as they sniff the air.

"Hunt froggin' frogs in the fens," Aarnr explains away his considerable talent at chucking rocks at poor defenceless meals, his voice slurring as he gets a little light headed.  Probably all that blood he left in the forest.

"Thou haven't done too badly either," he congratulates Martin, eyeing the hunter's crossbow jealously. It seems a good bet he'll not be satisfied with his bow for long.

The priest garners himself another rock, but decides against another cast just at the moment.  "Looks like the pumpions have grown wise to us," he opines, though in his injured state can't manage much more than a spot of light invective.

"Frogs was it?  They can be good eating.  Taste like chicken if you cook them right." Martin says with a smile, which fades quickly as he continues, "Just got to be careful not to eat the bright coloured ones.  Red or yellow in particular, because they can poison a man and leave him unable to do more than beg his friends to kill him, without the strength to even lift a knife and do the job himself."

"Not a good way to go."

He considers the rabbits which seem to definitely be more alert now, and addresses Aarnr's comment regarding his hunting abilities, "I've got an advantage over you.  I've been doing this since before you were even a twinkle in your father's eye.  Practice makes perfect, as they say, and I've had a lot of practice."

"I reckon you're right though.  We'll have a hard job getting more here.  I think we've enough for a spot of dinner though.  Even one for Hanne.  Maybe we should go and cook them."

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Fergus watches Aarnr clamber to his feet with some concern, though he does his best to hide it; he's pretty sure the priest wouldn't thank him for noticing any weakness.  Though maybe he's misjudging Aarnr.  Fergus hadn't expected him to accept help in applying the salve, either.  Fergus stands for a moment, undecided and confused.

He smiles at Martin's jibe about youngsters, though.  "You must be older than you look, to make a crack like that."

Fergus briefly considers suggesting that they take the time to find whatever first alerted Hanne, but decides against it. He tails along behind the others as they go hunting for rabbits, casting about for stones of a suitable size and shape.

Fergus is very happy to kill a rabbit on his first throw.  It makes up for the disappointment of missing on his hunt with Aarnr.  He smiles broadly but is careful not to be too demonstrative lest he startle the other rabbits.
</backpost>

"Yep, four should be enough.  I doubt we'll have any other guests this evening."

"You really are older than you look then, Martin?  Do you have elf blood?"

"Sorry, that's rude." Fergus looks embarrassed and quickly changes the topic.  "Can you really eat frogs?"

If you ask me, they taste more like fish than chicken, but I've only eaten frogs' legs once.

"Froggin' crunchy," is Aarnr's considered opinion on anuran cuisine. He ponders Martin's words of wisdom regarding the toxicity thoughtfully, though from his expression it is unclear whether he is considering many near poisonings, the fussiness of civilised palates, or his wounds are paining him once more. Still, even.

All in all, another meal of cooked rabbit sounds very enticing, and he nods his agreement, licking his lips.

Fergus' question is a bit rude - fancy implying a skillful hunter like Martin has any Elf blood in him ! - but the priest supposes you can't be too careful nowdays.  And it's not as if the man has denied it or is seeking to cover it up.  Ears.  Ears are always a give away.

"Never kill more than you can eat," Aarnr offers.  Again, it is unclear whether he's talking about rabbits or killing in general ...