by Serrus » Sat Mar 07, 2015 11:04 pm
"God knows how long this drought'll last for," the farrier says. "Been hard enough this winter getting supplies and stocks from just about anywhere, and now we got some beast in this woods eating anyone and anything, and nobody's doin' anything about it." He's hammering away upon a beaten down horseshoe, brown red from the bellow fires, the anvil ringing its usual song while the air is hot with the tang of wrought iron. He owned little pocket shelter right at the point of Mill Pond St and Drover St, a smaller set up than many of the smithy's on the eastern side of town, but it served well enough, a small makeshift stable of wood and thatched roofs, with a smoke hole in the middle for the flue of the bellows.
His apprentice is hammering tacks on a familiar looking saddle of leather and black horn, working tirelessly. "I heard they said the monster ate a whole giant," the youth comments, turning the saddle aside, checking threading before working on more tacks. "A huge forest giant. Gobbled him down, head to toe." He hushed when the farrier looked his way with a glare that spoke volumes of improper behaviour and impertinence. "A giant, yeah, that's what they're saying now," the farrier echoes.
"A giant? A whole bloody one?" says Serrus Belcaw, sprawled out in a lazy slouch against fence post and barrel, in a position that looks like he was ready to sleep the entire day off. He reflects this behaviour by taking a huge bite of an equally huge pear that seems big enough to feed a horse, and this is also reflected by the impatient nicker of his ever-present blue-roan stallion, the rouncey making an temperamental stamp of its hoof, all ignored by its master.
"That's what them folks out near the lakes been saying," replies the farrier, turning the horseshoe over and hammering again.
The male rouncey makes another irritated nicker, and lowers its head to butt hard against Serrus' shoulder, sniffing at the pear. "Piss off," Serrus replies to the equine in rebuke. "This ere's mine." He stabs a finger to a nearby pile of hay. "That's there's yours." The rouncey turns to eye the food trough, and it looks like another horse has already shat in it. It's silver head turns back , ears swivelling as black pools regard the master again, and it rebukes the sellsword in turn with a nicker and a whipcrack of its ebony tail.
Dark brown eyes from the man inspect the hay before the sellsword shrugs, nonchalant. "Don't s'pose I'd eat that stuff, neither. Still don't change t' fact that I'm eatin' this whole bloody thing, and you're jus' gonna have t' stand there and watch."
The rouncey looks set to snatch the said item, though another sound, far beyond the reach of its master or fellow humans, catches it's ears. The head raises up, ears swivelling and nostrils flaring. A familiar sound and scent, though the sellsword pays it little mind, taking another bite and chewing noisily. But then sound approaches, carried in the wind and along the street, a sound that garners the attentions of the sellsword and those surrounding him.
"Give it back to me, you thief!"
The apprentice stops working the tacks, the farrier stops hammering, the rouncey's ears prick upwards with a raising of it's head and curious cough of a nicker, while the sellsword rolls his eyes, grunting to stand to his feet, dressed for work during work hours, in the usual brigandine, hauberk, gambeson, kriegsmesser and dirk. Riding boots scuff along hay and mud, and the apprentice drops his hammer and peeks out over the top of the farrier's stable.
Thief! Theif?! Thieeef!!
The words ring among the labourers, echoing along like little birds in the trees, all the way along Drover's lane and Baker St. People start to gawk, looking for an interloper, a running scoundrel. Serrus peers about a great wooden pylon, arms folded, and he squints, looking to see the fuss. A couple of people are standing to the sides, others run to hide their precious wares. They are a ways down the road, but the pace between them easily sets them apart. The long head of the stallion snakes it's way around the pylon above the sellsword like an odd four-legged peeping tom. It sniffs the air, ears swivelling to the varying sounds.
"She looks right stupid in them skirts," Belcaw says with a sneer. "Right bloody dandy. Like some bint from t' sand isles and a nun from Sullibon jus' had 'emselves a baby." He takes another bite of the fruit, the stallion snapping teeth to lean in close. "Don't even bloody think about it," he growls, and the horse leans back with another impertinent stamp, before the pair of them glance back toward Gloria and her yet to be revealed pursuer. From monster-laying riffraff to street filcher. This is sure to be a good show.