[Elora]

Barrold

Avanill ignored the disparaging glance that Barrold tossed in his direction upon receiving the younger man's directive. He seemed distracted, and not by Vanwe's disorderly conduct either. Barrold stowed away some names Avanill had let fall in the scuffle into the dim recesses of his cunning mind as he made a show of brushing the dirt off his tunic.

Avanill had already changed his shirt. Barrold studied the front of his own. The meals of a good month could be seen, along with evidence of other handiwork. The latest was simply that. Not his first and nor his last, Tallas' blood would fade to a rusty dull brown stain just like the rest of them had. Done with his cursory homage to personal cleanliness, Barrold stowed his dagger, having had the foresight to clean it on his shirt first.

He ambled inside and peered around the old man's shack.

"Cosy," he observed as he looked about. When Avanill did not immediately appear inside, Barrold kicked the packed earth floor and shouted irritably for the boy.

"Oi! Get in 'ere and earn ya keep boyo!" A draft of suspicion crept over him and he returned to the door to glare out of it at Avanill, just in case he was busying himself with Vanwe. Avanill wasn't, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't. Barrold Ferney breathed more suspicion than air, which was just as well given his occupation.

"I'm coming, old man!" Avanill's reply was testy.

"'Ow am I gonna know which is what... all these bottles and most of them useless probably..." Avanill shouldered past Barrold into Tallas' home and started gathering bottles. Barrold saw him open one and sniff it experimentally before replacing the lid and dropping it into his pack.

A glance back out to Vanwe confirmed that she was still there. He could see the tears upon her face from here. She was staring at the bloodied crumpled man like a hawk.

"You! No trouble, Princess. You know what 'appens when you don't do as you're told. Tallas there, had ee of come out as we asked him to, all nice and proper, wouldn't be so indisposed as to bleed all over the place. A terrible mess, that..."

With a chuckle, Barrold turned back to the shack. Avanill's pack now jostled bottles together.

"Is it what she wants," Barrold asked with some anxious enthusiasm.

"She?" Avanill looked up from his consideration of what seemed to be powdered something or rather and frowned at Barrold. "Ah, yes... I think she'll be pleased... well pleased in fact." Barrold smiled, because that was good news. Lightened of spirit, he set to raiding Tallas' supplies of foods. He had as good a larder as he did range of odd plants and fungus stored in funny bottles.

When the two men emerged, their packs were considerably heavier. They eased them onto their backs and crossed to where Vanwe slumped in the ropes. Her head was bowed, but as they got closer, she lifted her head enough to fix both of them with sapphire eyes as cool as ice under starlight.

"Now, no trouble, Princess. I don't have time to entertain you now like we did this mornin'." Avanill wrapped a hand around the hilt of his knife. They stepped around Tallas' body.

"He's dead," she said in a voice that was as close to a growl as Barrold had ever heard. He chortled roundly, slapping his thigh in his amusement.

"You 'ear that, boyo! She's right smart, this one." Avanill only smiled, if it could be called that. Vanwe said no more. Barrold unknotted the rope and started to uncoil it from the tree. He came to a frayed part, a neat fray he was forced to admit, a precise one. He paused, studying it closely. He looked closely at Vanwe. She seemed worn somehow, wearied. Maybe she was stronger than she seemed to have frayed the rope with her struggles.

"Hurry Ferney," Avanill urged, interrupting Barrold's turning thoughts. He resumed his work and soon they were on their way. Vanwe trailed behind them on a short length of rope which pleased Barrold at the opportunity to yank on the rope and drag her forward.

"Where're going," Avanill asked, conserving his breath for a hike.

"North Gate, or near abouts," Barrold reply, savagely yanking the rope. He heard Vanwe's lunge to keep her balance. If she was tired, maybe she'd trip. A few bruises wouldn't be too much damage, and it wasn't as though she hadn't earnt them.

"That's an hour away, at least," Avanill protested. Barrold merely shrugged and dragged suddenly at the rope again. There were some games that he would never tire of.