Patrick stared at the roasted beaver on the end of his spiked stick. He used the term ‘roasted’ loosely. Charred might be a better word. Or inedible. Across the firepit from him, Sergeant Major Bolindear was chewing methodically. Patrick suppressed a twinge of guilt at the carefully controlled expression on the old soldier’s face.

Patrick had rapidly discovered that he had very little to offer in the situation he found himself in at present. Initially, he had sulked, before abruptly realizing that he was trying to be better than that. So, he had set himself to the task he could most effectively see to with his sprained ankle: cooking. Unfortunately, he had quickly discovered that he did not posses a deft hand when it came to cooking. Quite the opposite in fact; his lack of skill in cooking was something quite impressive, according to Rai Halfhead. Before he had left to deliver a message to Ingot, the lad had informed Patrick that with cooking like that, he might have a bright future as the King’s poison-master. Patrick had graciously responded by not taking offense, even going so far as to force a laugh, as it was what he thought a good man would do.

Patrick took a small bite, and swallowed without chewing, trying to beat the taste. He lost that race, albeit not by much. He grimaced, coming to the conclusion that he agreed with the peasant, but resigned himself to eating the rest of it. When he finished, he licked the grease off of his fingers, as there was little sense in letting it go to waste. It was funny, how just a week in the wilderness could turn an aristocrat into a savage. He sat in silence for a while, looking at his feet, still bedecked in his fine boots, although they were now well and truly scuffed. He felt bad for the old soldier sitting across from him, as he was confident the man could cook far better than Patrick himself, but was letting him cook in order to allow him to not feel completely useless. Patrick lifted his head and let out a sigh.

“I’m sorry Sergeant-Major.” He mumbled, “I know this fare isn’t exactly… as tasty as you might like.” The old soldier leaned back on his bedroll with a snort.

“True enough, Milord,” he said easily, “But I’ve had worse.”

“You have?” Patrick’s eyebrows shot up at that. “I find that difficult to believe, somehow.”

Every time that Bolindear used his title, it took Patrick off-guard. He knew that after the events involving three prisoners and a certain red-headed captain, the old Sergeant-Major paid Patrick’s father a visit. Patrick hadn’t heard everything that had been said discussed, but there had been quite a lot of drunken shouting on Adarian’s part, and quite a few growled threats on Bolindear’s. Patrick had been listening at the door for about half of it, and he was quite certain that anyone who could call Duke Adarian MacNeil a ‘Piss-drinking sheep-fornicator’, whose head was ‘must be a chamber pot to contain your shitty excuse for brains’, had no business calling that same ‘Sheep-fornicator’s’ son ‘Milord’. Patrick was pulled from his musings by the old man’s chuckle.

“Trust me, Lord MacNeil, when I say that I definitely have had worse.” He grinned, pulling the scar that ran down from his right eye into jagged pattern. “I once was a part of a diplomatic envoy to Fuar Searbh, in northern Slaintè, in order to make the transition of the northern territories into Whoid Stria smoother.”

Patrick did some quick head-math, coming up with the numbers and timing of that. That would’ve been roughly ten to twelve years ago, as the Slaintè, or the northern territories as they were now called by most of Whoid Stria, were a relatively new addition to their country. Bolindear continued, and Patrick rapidly tried to keep up with the story.

“While we were there, there was a…” He paused for a moment, then shrugged for a moment then continued, “Let’s say a misunderstanding, between one of our young officers and the daughter of one of the Cinnidh.”

“Cinnidh?” Patrick asked, not recognizing the term. Bolindear looked at him and his smile widened.

“That’s their equivalent of a lord up there.”

“Oh!” Patrick said then paused as he realized that Bolindear had just said that there had been an issue between an apparently relatively low-ranking officer and the daughter of a Lord. “Oh.” He said, considerably graver this time. Bolindear smirked.

“‘Oh’ indeed, Lord Patrick.” He replied evenly. “It was a misunderstanding much like the one you had with Lady Natalia not so far back, if I remember correctly.”

Patrick flushed at that, but Bolindear continued as though he hadn’t even noticed.

“Anyhow, he shouldn’t have been with us anyways, he was too young for it.” He scratched his beard, “After he got our entire delegation into a pit of manure so deep it could’ve been a mineshaft, he decided to ask for a damn shovel by drawing steel on the guardsman.” Patrick groaned, conveniently forgetting that he had basically done the equivalent with Caj not even three weeks back.

“He didn’t!” Patrick said incredulously.

“He did.” Bolindear replied.

“What happened?” Patrick asked curiously.

“Well,” Braxton grunted as he sat upwards, “After I beat the hell and bad intentions out of him in the public square, I was toasted by the Cinnidh and his wife, and invited to their home for an evening meal as thanks. It was there that I was introduced to a dish known as ‘Hàkarl’, which is loosely translated as ‘decomposed shark carcass’.” Patrick blinked and Bolindear laughed. “Indeed, Lord MacNeil, it was putrid. The shark is normally poisonous to eat, so they have to squeeze the poison out of it by burying it for ten weeks, then they dig it up and let it dry out for several months.”

Patrick found himself gagging at the idea of eating such a thing, and Bolindear nodded along with him.

“Trust me, when I tell you, that, was by and far the worst meal I have ever had in my life. What we just ate is like a tasty morsel in comparison.”

“What does it taste like?” Patrick asked curiously. Bolindear shrugged.

“To be honest, I’ve never tasted anything quite like it, but I’m told that fermented urine is a good comparison.”

Patrick shuddered at that, and didn’t ask any further questions. Bolindear laid back down, and Patrick went about banking the fire, before laying down himself. They had elected against having watches, since they were well out of the way of the enemy encampment. As he lay there, Patrick pondered Bolindear’s story. He thought of the young officer, and began to recognize the many similarities in their stories, the primary difference being their station. He let out a sigh, then spoke softly.

“Sergeant-Major?” he asked.

“Yes Milord?” Bolindear replied, his voice still not yet muddled by sleep.

“What happened to that young officer you mentioned?”

“Well,” Braxton grunted as he rolled over, “After I beat some sense into him, I reported to my superiors in the delegation that he had been instrumental in my befriending of the Cinnidh, and we pretended that nothing ever happened. On my personal recommendation, he transferred out of the Diplomatic Corps and into the Dragoons. If I remember correctly, he just made Major a few years back.”

Patrick rolled over now, meeting the old soldier’s eyes in the mottled darkness that the embers of the fire created.

“You didn’t report him.” Patrick noted. “You didn’t ruin his career or reputation. Why?” He heard a sigh, and then a long silence, until Bolindear finally spoke.

“Look, Patrick,” Bolindear said, dropping the formality that he had used with the Duke’s son up until this point. “He made a mistake, much the same as you did.” There was another silence, in which Patrick refused to acknowledge the older man’s words. Bolindear sighed. “I’m not stupid Patrick, I know why you’re asking about this. You want to know if you can make up for what you did. Here’s the truth of it; you can’t. You can’t do a thrice threshed thing about that. But that doesn’t mean you have to let it define you, Boyo. I didn’t end that man’s career because he was young and stupid. Most people who are old and wise were once young and stupid, but they survived and still made something of themselves.” Bolindear paused for a long moment letting Patrick think about that. Patrick spoke then.

“What happens if they don’t make something of themselves?” he asked quietly.

“They get old and bitter.” Bolindear replied, just as quietly. “They get old and bitter, then they die, leaving the world none the better. It seemed a waste to make another man that way, when he could be more, so I didn’t report him.”

“But wasn’t he evil?” Patrick asked uncertainly, “For what he did? Or tried to do?” Bolindear snorted.

“Boyo, Evil and Good moor their boats at the docks of every man’s heart, but more frequently, it is Stupidity’s vessel that causes the most trouble. You and him were both young and stupid, not to mention as horny as a three-headed unicorn in spring. You’ll grow out of it.”

Patrick let out a sputtering laugh, unable to reply, although he did file away ‘horny as a three-headed unicorn’ into his personal library of similes. After that, there was very little conversation between the two of them, as they turned in for the night by silent agreement.

***

Rai Halfhead burst through the undergrowth, feet moving as fast as they ever had in his life. With a grunt and a curse, he jumped and caught hold of a branch above his head, heaving himself up with surprising alacrity. The presence of his hook on his left hand did admittedly make such movements difficult for him, but fear of death was a great motivator. He leaned against the body of the tree, knees pulled to his chest, as he watched his attackers file into view.

Three wild pigs, one boar and two sows, rushed to the base of the sentinel of the forest in which Rai found himself, letting out huffs of air and snorts of displeasure. The boar’s bloodied tusks thrust angrily in Rai’s direction, vainly trying to extend their reach. Rai had approximately no intention of allowing that to happen, and he moved a branch or two upwards for good measure. Not because he was scared, or worried, not at all, he just wasn’t too terribly keen on getting any more acquainted with the porcine creatures below him, particularly the big one’s tusks.

“Bastard.” Rai wheezed, getting his breath back. “Oh aye, he says, ‘easy as a stroll through a summer meadow’ he says.” Rai swallowed and continued cursing Old-Scout. “‘Don’t ye worry yerself one little bit Halfhead! It’ll be nae threshing trouble at all.’” Rai breathed in and out, trying to center himself and ignore the bruises on his arms, face, and chest, and the small cuts and scrapes he had contrived to pick up over the last four days. He breathed out, whispering what was rapidly becoming his mantra. “Old-Scout… is a threshing bastard… Old-Scout… is a threshing bastard.”

Over the past few days and nights, Rai had come to well and truly hate the guts of that man. Of course, he had come to hate many things over the past several days; wasps, wildcats, coyotes, the list went on. Most of the wildlife that Rai had been cursed enough to encounter had made that list. Rai was honest enough to admit that most of those negative encounters were his fault: what did you expect when you threw a street rat into the wild? Aye, he was honest enough to admit that, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting or terrifying.

On the first night, a bear got into his food and stole it, and gave him a good scare too boot. The day after that, he got chased by a wildcat that tried to steal the fish that Rai had caught to feed himself, eventually, he just gave in and tossed the fish to the cat, but not before it chased him into a small, five-dog pack of hungry-looking coyotes. Said sickly looking coyotes had apparently thought he looked like a rather tasty snack, and he would’ve gotten a nasty bite on his left forearm if he hadn’t jammed his cuffed hook into the lead canine’s gullet. Even then, he’d gotten bruises, but he managed to scare off the rest with a few good swats from his Jitte, especially after he accidentally tore the throat of the alpha out when he had pulled his hook from its mouth. After he chased them off, he didn’t dare sleep anywhere close so he stayed on the move through the night, making decent time and not having any unfortunate run-ins until his fatigue doomed him not after sunrise. He hadn’t meant to step on the wasp’s nest, honestly, but that was little comfort seven stings and one hour later, when he finally pulled himself out of the water on the bank of the Dupandover. Contrary to popular belief, while wasps won’t follow you into the water, they will wait for you, meaning that he had travelled for quite a bit below water. He had pulled himself out of the water when he came to a small Beaver’s hut, whose owner had attempted to take a bite out of him.

After all of that, Rai had been hoping for a quiet day today, one without unfortunate encounters. Initially, it had seemed that he might get his wish, and he made great time throughout the day, encouraged to get somewhere with food as soon as possible. But then, at the crest of a hill, he tripped, and rolled down, right into the rutting ground of three wild hogs. Thusly, he found himself in his current situation.

Rai looked below him at the milling animals, and decided to just wait them out. He needed rest anyways. He took the time to tie himself to the tree, so he wouldn’t accidentally fall out, then closed his eyes and slept. He awoke a few hours later, just as the sun went down. When he opened his eyes, the porkers were gone. He stretched with a groan, and climbed down, starting northward one more. He had to get to Ingot, and then back, as fast as possible. Mute and Big-man were relying on him.