Aarnr sighs.  Froggin' water it is then.  The priest eyes his friend, eyes the waterskin, sighs once more, then rises painfully, limps over to the wall to recover the skin, and limps back again to hand it over to Fergus.  "There ye go," he says, trying his very best not to sound put upon.

Duty done, Aarnr settles back down by his fire, turning the rabbit frequently as he tries to hurry the cooking process along by glaring at the unfortunate bunny.  At least damp wood and fitful flames are a way of life for one born and raised in the fens, so he's had lots of practice with that glare.

The smell of the food and the warmth of the fire seems to revive Fergus somewhat.  "Sorry, Aarnr, I was well out of it for a while there.  And look at you, it's a wonder you're able to move.  Gods, I wish I knew some healing.  I can take a turn with the cooking if you want to rest."

Fergus doesn't really believe that Aarnr will accept help but he's willing to pitch in if allowed.  Regardless of the answer he gets, Fergus continues.  He begins, a little shyly, "I should thank you, Aarnr, and not just for helping me after I collapsed either.  See, I've been thinking and I think I'm beginning to understand.  I wouldn't've fought that bird-bear thing if you hadn't gone charging after it.  But, y'know, there was that twisted animal, that was just wrong.  And the wizard, he was bad.  I'm not quite sure where the bird-bear thing fits but I know that if it's wandering about here it could have hurt a bunch of people I care for.  What I guess I'm trying to say is, maybe some things need to be fought."

"Your god, Bowbe, is a god of battle right?  Freya's a bit like that, though you'd not think it.  She's the goddess of love and fer... um, health an' growing things.  But that also means she's goddess of war and death.  I don't understand a lot of it, but they'e connected.  'Cause if you love something, sometimes you need to fight to protect it and you can't have new life without death.  Like how you need to harvest a field and burn the stubble before you can plough and sow.  What's the word, for when one thing follows another that follows the first thing?  Like a wheel going round."  Fergus tries to illustrate his point by making circular motions in the air with one hand.

"Freya has this one servant.  Some people call him the Gardener, because he prunes her garden to make it fruitful and pulls out anything that is barren or bears bad fruit." As he speaks, Fergus stands and makes his way over to the cart, where some of his belongings are stowed.  "But parents in Fairhill, they tell their naughty children," Fergus picks up a large object from the cart and turns back towards the fire, as he does so the firelight catches and flares on a curved metal blade longer than Fergus' arm. "to fear the Reaper."

Having concluded what, for him, is an extraordinary speech, Fergus brings his scythe backs to the fire, sits down and begins to sharpen its blade with long, deliberate strokes of his whetstone.

Fergus's speech takes Aarnr somewhat by surprise, and it takes the priest some time to catch up with the gist of his friends words, but slowly it dawns upon him that his friend is actually thanking him for dragging him into the battle that nearly killed the pair of them !


"Revolution ?" Aarnr offers, vaguely aware that civilised folk know far more about such than he.

As Fergus fetches his scythe and sets to sharpening it, Aarnr chips in with some of his own homespun philosopy, alternatively turning the rabbit or poking  it with a stick, as appropriate.

"Bowbe's more your god of ... fighting," the priest considers it polite to correct any misapprehension.  "Battles are a bit organised for the sort of scrapes my people indulge in."

This doesn't sound quite right either, so Aarnr continues on, hoping to stumble across an explanation for what just comes naturally to him.

"You have to get the god's fobbin' attention, see, otherwise how do they know who to give their favour to ?  And you don't earn their respect by killing those weaker than you since they're no challenge.  So you have to shout and scream to make them listen, and pick a foe worth their notice."

"Who do the pukin' minnows respect most ?  The Gardener or the Reaper ?"  Aarnr nods sagely, happy he's made his point.

"It's not just froggin' life and death," he concludes. "It's much more important."

It's an odd conversation, but maybe not that odd, considering the participants.

One is a half-bestial savage priest from the fog-shrouded cold fens and poisonous marshes beyond the edge of the civilised world.  The follower of a god who respects only those who are prepared to spit in his eye and demand that which they want from him.  Not need, but want, for what man or woman worthy of their name and flesh and bone would ever admit to needing anything from a mere god, who sits lollygagging in the sky while they toil in their harsh land?

The other is a simple farmer's son, raised in a much gentler land of green hills and fertile fields.  A land where the most common weapons are the tools of the farmer, and where a goddess of love keeps a jealous watch over the people she protects, and deals out life and death with an even hand.  After all, who cares more for the land?  The gardener who lets it become overgrown and decrepit, or the one who manages it with scythe and axe and fire?

And somehow, in spite of their differing lives and faiths, there is definitely understanding of a sort growing between the two...

"This Freya of thine sounds alright," Aarnr vouchsafes to his friend.  "Life and death ... that's what it's froggin' all about really, isn't it ?"

Bowbe's priest isn't the slightest bit worried about offending his god by such rash words concerning one of his peers - on the contrary, it might make the dog-hearted lout a bit quicker to grant his favour !

Aarnr shifts his position with a grunt of pain.  The flow of blood seems to have stopped for now, at least as long as he doesn't do anything too energetic to open the wounds again, but his cracked ribs are a constant reminder of just how lucky he was.  Hopefully after a good night's sleep he'll have the strength up to remonstrate with Bowbe and demand the god do something about it.

"Figure this is done now," the priest nods towards the just-cooked rabbit.  With his dagger he saws away chunks of meat, sharing them between Fergus and himself.

The rabbit is tasty, if a little on the stringy side, and a hot, fresh meal does much to make both men feel a little better.

Towards the end of the meal, Fergus stands to fetch his waterskin, and stops in his tracks, whispering a warning to Aarnr.

There is a man walking up the hillside towards them, hidden from view when they had been sitting.  He's dressed all in browns and greens, with a heavy, hooded cloak, and carries a crossbow cradled loosely in his arms.  A large reddish hound follows a little distance behind him...

"Ho !"  Aarnr struggles painfully to his feet to greet the newcomer. "Over here ! If thou were hoping for a feed, then thou are too froggin' late.  Thy dog is welcome to the bones, though.  Is that thy dog ?"  the priest points to the red hound.  "Or is the fly-bitten gudgeon just following thee around ?"

"Well met, friends!" the man calls back, stopping at a respectful distance and throwing back his hood.  More can be seen of him now.  He looks to be in his forties or fifties, with short dark hair, turning to grey, and a scar running down the left side of his face, from eye brow to jawline. "I saw the smoke from your fire and wondered about it.  Not many travellers out this way, what with Fairhill being so close and all.  Most people prefer a comfortable bed."

The hound moves closer to him, "Aye, she's mine, aren't you girl?" The animal wags its tail and rubs against his leg.  "Her name's Hanne.  I'm Martin, by the by.  I'm a hunter by trade.  Do you mind if I come and warm my bones by the fire a little?"

Aarnr is impressed enough by the scar to warm to the old man.  "Plenty comfortable for us," he grins at Martin, waving his hand towards the fire in invitation.  "Froggin' wood's a bit damp, but yer welcome to it, an yer dog."

"She's a fine beast," the priest adds.  At least her colouring is a good omen.

"Been huntin' ourselves," he points proudly to the wads of bloodied cloth plastered on his neck.  "Caught us a fobbin' big one."

Belatedly, "I'm Aarnr ... son of Orgothan."  Not that would mean much around here, but he was nothing if not hopeful.

<backpost>
Fergus is confused.  One moment Aarnr is saying respect is more important than life and death, then he's saying life and death is what it's all about.  None of it makes much sense.  Fergus just nods, to show he's listening if nothing else.

The smell of cooking rabbit breaks up whatever train of thought Fergus might have been able to string together.  Once it's off the spit, Fergus devours his portion with near indecent haste, burning his fingers and mouth in the process.  He goes to fetch his waterskin to clean up the mess but before he reaches it he sees a man coming up the hill with his dog...
</backpost>

Fergus stands back as Aarnr greets the new arrival.  The man seems friendly enough and Fergus' reticence is more a matter of shyness than distrust.  Neither the man nor his dog seem immediately familiar to Fergus but he's still uncomfortable being this close to Fairhill.

"H'lo Martin.  I'm Fergus."

Fergus crouches down so Hanne can get the scent of him or, more likely, the hot rabbit fat on his fingers.

Martin moves in closer to the fire, as Hanne starts licking at Fergus' fingers.  The hunter glances at the assorted makeshift dressings and blood-stained and torn clothes on the two travellers, then at the bones near the fire.

"Judging by the state the pair of you are in, that rabbit put up a bloody good fight." he says, with a grin.  "What was it?  Bear?  Wolf?  Troll?  The tales I heard over in Bard's Gate spoke of some sort of monster killing cattle around here.  Thought I'd come over here and see if I could kill it."  He looks towards the north, though with the drizzling rain obscuring the view there isn't much to be seen in that direction, "We're close to the Stonehearts here.  Supposed to be all kinds of horrors wander down out of the mountains."

Aarnr snorts with good-humoured laughter. "Wasn't a gleeping rabbit did this to us," he explains, "though we're not exactly sure what the creature was.  I still think it was a pheasant, but Fergus here reckons it wasn't."

"Got one of the froggin' thing's feathers though," the priest says proudly, pulling out his trophy and holding it up for Martin's inspection. "Might have been the beast thou were after.  It seemed to eat trees, though, not cows."

"Stonehearts ?" Aarnr inquires.  Perhaps the name of those who claim this land.

Martin studies the feather as he replies to Aarnr, "The Stonehearts are the mountains a couple of days' march north of here.  On a bright day you'd be able to see the peaks on the horizon.  Today, with the mist and the rain, not so much."

"This thing you killed?  How big was it?  I mean roughly, across the wings?"

Hanne finishes cleaning Fergus' fingers and, with a wag of her tail, she moves away from him to rejoin Martin.

"Must've been bored of fallin' down all the froggin' time," Aarnr ruminates like a true Fenlander on the reason for the creature straying so far from its home.

"Bigger than me," the priest tells the hunter proudly.  "Thought it was a beslubberin', big bear when we first saw it !  After that ... wasn't payin' much attention really - far too busy tryin' to stick my sword in its gleepin' gizzards and avoid its beak and claws !"

"It nearly did for us," he points to the wounds on his neck and chest.  "Luckily the god was payin' attention and saw us right."

"Thou fought many motley-minded monsters thyself ?" Aarnr asks eagerly.

"Aye, I've faced a few in my time." Martin replies with a slight smile. "You might say that it's my trade."

He considers Aarnr's description of the creature.  "A bear, you say?  This beast... did it look like a filthy feathered bear, with the head of an owl?  Then you were fortunate indeed, my friend.  An owlbear, as they are called, can be a most dangerous foe.  You should give thanks to this god of yours."

"Mayhap that was the very creature the villagers were concerned about.  In which case you've done them a service, all unknowing."

Aarnr is surprised and shocked that the transparent ruse he tried to entice Fergus into battle (not that his friend needed any other cause than seeing his companion in need of help) seems to have actually been 'the right thing to do' ... so surprised in fact that he completely overlooks the blasphemous suggestion that he should actually thank Bowbe !  Now that's the way to get smited good and proper !

But he is certainly intrigued that one could actually make a living out of monster-slaying, rather than just doing it for the pleasure of it (and as a proper religious observance, of course).

"Thou don't say," the priest muses.

"Froggin' stunk to the heights !" he agrees with Martin. "An' covered in feathers an' all.  Head of an owl ... but a big owl," he feels he should point out.  "Fobbin' thing would look damn silly otherwise !"  So probably not a pheasant then.

"Saved thee the effort, then ?" he grins at the hunter.  "Our pleasure, eh, Fergus ?"

"Vilagers are no match for some of the things that come out of the wilder places of the world." explains Martin, "Sometimes they need a little help, and that's where I step in.  Like I said, it's what I do.  I don't earn much, mind, I generally end up working for meals, or nothing."

Fergus nods his agreement with Aarnr, though he looks a little less sure about there being any actual pleasure involved in defeating the owlbear.  Still, if it really had been raiding farms, then he's done some of his old neighbours a favour.

Martin laughs, "Aye, you saved me the effort, at least for that one.  I'll still hang around for a day or two though, just in case the owlbear wasn't what's been causing trouble."

Aarnr sort of identifies with those motives.  Sure the hunter acts out of altruism, whereas the priest fights monsters for the challenge of it ... but neither of them are in it for the money.

The possibility of there being another monster is appealing, but puts Aarnr in an awkward position.

"We'd like to stay and froggin' help thee," he tells Martin with honest regret, "but we're supposed to be waitin' for our friends so we can escort a saucy, milk-livered clot-pole to some weather-bitten wizard's tower."  The priest looks suitably injured at the injustice of it all, and oblivious as to whether the mission they didn't hire on for was supposed to be kept a secret.

"But if we see any gleepin' monsters on the way, we'll be sure to kill them !" he assures the hunter.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, my friend." Martin says cheerfully, "As I say, we're not far from the Stonehearts, and there's all manner of beasts that come down from there.  If you miss the rest of this hunt, there'll be another, and soon enough I expect."

And then his tone suddenly grows more grim and serious, "This wizard's tower... it wouldn't have belonged to... what was his damned name now?  Ah... of course... Eralion.  Is it Eralion's tower you're bound for?  It lays in a patch of woodland northeast of here, named Grimwood by the villagers.  If it is Eralion's tower you seek, then be warned - there are tales of older and fouler things than owlbears in the deep parts of the forest."

Fergus listens with interest to the conversation, though he plays little part.  It strikes him as a little odd that he has not heard of Martin before.  Everyone local knew that trouble sometimes came wandering in, whether from the Stonehearts or some other wild place, but mostly the farmers took care of their own.  Somebody would call out the local militia or get a hunting party together and they'd make sure the trouble kept on wandering.  This fellow must be quite accomplished if he's more capable than a dozen sturdy farmhands.  Mind you, now that Fergus thought on it, this Martin seemed quite prepared to hunt an owlbear on his own.  And Fergus had thought it folly for two people to attack.

"Told you it wasn't a pheasant." Fergus says with a grin.  In truth he's glad to have a name for the beast.  It makes it easier to think about.

"Aarnr shouldn't have told you that.  But there can't be that many wizard's towers here about, so I guess there's no harm in telling you.  It's Eralion's tower we're after.  The Grimwood, though, that's bad."

Creatures out of the Grimwood were the nightmare of many locals.  They were invoked by parents to scare naughty children.  Fergus shuddered.  Then he remembered that his new patron was also used to frighten children.  That was a strange comfort.  If he was to be a Reaper's man, then he'd be just as scary.

Aarnr cheers up at Martin's warning, almost rising from where he sits in his excitement, though even that little effort causes his vision to swim before him. "The cockered canker-blossom's will have to wait until I can give them a fair fight," he ruminates absently, even as Fergus's words wash over him unheeded.

"Eralion !" the priest exclaims, regaining the thread of the conversation, "That's the hell-hated pignut !"

That both his friend and the hunter are wary of this Grimwood doesn't seem to worry Aarnr overmuch.  "There'll be a few more of us," he assures Martin.  "Our friends have gone into the village - after comfortable beds !  Catch them grubbing around in the dirt !" he laughs at the thought, grinning broadly at Fergus.

"You know Grimwood?  You're a local then?" Martin asks Fergus, "Maybe you can tell me a little more about the area.  I've only been here a little while.  I was thinking I'd have to go back to the village for more information, but if you can help, that'll save me a walk."

"The story, as I heard it from Shandril, he glances at Fergus here, "is that Grimwood used to be called Northwood, and even then it had a dark reputation.  Eralion had his home built there, and things took a turn for the better, at least for a couple of years, until Eralion started dabbling in things that are best left well alone.  After that things got worse than ever, and stayed that way, even though the old fart's long dead."

He chuckles at Aarnr's description of the other members of the group, "Never seen a wild beast other than a rat or a pigeon, I'll be bound."

The places and people that Martin names are for the most part beyond Aarnr, and he looks to Fergus to provide a suitable response to the hunter's questions and remarks.

In all honesty, though, the priest cannot let Martin's last comment pass unchallenged, though he grins to show he appreciates the intent.  "To be fair," Aarnr looks towards his friend as he speaks, "they don't lack courage, and are froggin' handy ... for civilized folk.  Thou would not think it to look at them, but I've seen them sweatin' and bleedin'." He recalls the fight with the undead in particular.  "Took down some carrion bone-bags in short order."

Fergus' head tilts to one side as Martin mentions Shandril, but he lets the man finish speaking before he says anything.  Of course Aarnr jumps in before him, and Fergus must wait again as the hunter replies to his friend, "These friends of yours can fight then?  Then Grimwood might be a little more tolerable."

And then Fergus gets his chance, "You know Shandril?"  He glances at Aarnr, "She's the priestess of Freya in the village."

Martin nods, "Aye, I've known her for a while.  Likely since before you were born and then a bit longer, though you'd never guess that to look at her.  Elves and their long lives.  Back a few years, way back, before even my time, she was an adventurer.  A bit more than twenty years ago I spent almost a year in Fairhill learning from her."

"Well, you can trust what Shandril says.  And what she told you's as much as I know."  Truth be told, it's probably more and what little Fergus can remember of the Grimwood is more than likely to be fiction anyway.

"There was that...mashed-together thing, too." Fergus adds to Aarnr's rebuttal.

Then, as though to turn the conversation back, Fergus adds, "It seems funny to think of her as old.  She's always been so young and... Fergus trails off, looking embarrassed.