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| Chapter 2. Settling In | |
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hat a dump,” Armand announced upon entering the dingy cottage. Mog gazed up from his current project which was dislodging a very unhappy barn owl with a tatty broom he had found moldering in the kitchen. The bird screamed and he managed to bat it aside when it darted toward him. Startled, the creature fluttered onto a high rafter and glared down at him with angry black eyes. “Just hex it and have done with it,” Armand sighed. “It ain’t done nothin’ t’ harm me,” Mog replied, trying to keep his voice non-chalant. “Yet,” Armand offered. Mog was angry at Armand. He had spent the last two hours laboring alone to clear the mess out of the fireplace onto to discover a badger lived there and had dug a rather nasty hole under one of the walls. Its corpse was currently rotting outside for the simple crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, as evening drew in, the resident barn owl had awakened and taken exception with him. The bird had departed through the hole in the roof twice, only to return in full screech. “It’s getting late. I suppose we had better get ready for bed,” Armand said casually, “Pity you missed supper. Folks wondered where you were.” “Nice of yeh t’ fetch meh,” Mog snapped, “Aye, choose yer patch of dirt n’ I’ll make do. I’ll jus’ ask this varmint t’ let us sleep, then.” “We’re not staying here,” Armand chuckled, “Honestly, Mog, they’re not barbarians.” Admittedly, he was relieved to learn that. He glanced warily up at the barn owl. His stomach growled mournfully but he ignored it. One evening without a meal was vexing but he had endured greater privations in his time. “They’ll let us bed down in the long house until this place is up to snuff.” “When th’ dirt is presentable?” Mog muttered. Armand chuckled and held the door open, gesturing Mog to follow. A pair of goats had already arrived in the yard and were happily munching the overgrown foliage. Mog wondered why their hosts had delayed offering the choice vegetation to the creatures until now and shrugged, deciding he did not really want to know. After ducking past the door frame he closed it and smirked at what an empty gesture that was when the barn owl emerged from the roof and watched them from the top of a convenient alder. Armand hurried ahead of him, his pale hair bright in the gloaming. As the sun set, the shadows of the hills deepened and the thin mountain air had already abandoned the warmth of the sun. Mog chafed his arms, realizing that the clothes he had brought with him were not adequate. The rest of his belongings, including his fleece-lined winter gear, would arrive with Zhou’s delegation in a few days. Until then he would have to make do. The longhouse dominated the center of the village, towering over the stout dwarven structures while sided with the same gray stone and aged logs. Its steeply peaked roof was ornamented on either end with knot work and stylized wolf heads. As they drew closer, the toothsome aroma of roasted meat taunted Mog’s empty belly and his ears captured the faint strains of fiddle music. “There you are!” announced Brigit when Armand held open one of the double doors and urged Mog inside. His heart rejoiced at the sight of musicians at the far end of the chamber belting out a traditional reel while Brigit’s clan spun and danced before them. The plank floor resounded with exuberant stamping in time to the rollicking music. Brigit smiled brightly up at Mog and pressed a bowl of meaty stew into his hands. “Armeh, yer a rogue,” Mog chuckled as they led him to the table where Brigit’s family was gathered along the wall to make room for the dancers. Anluan and Neave smiled broadly and made room for them. “We were beginning to worry about you,” Neave announced, chuckling, “Armand tells us you are quite musical. I do hope you brought your pipes.” Mog blushed, taken aback by the sudden kindness and attention of Brigit’s parents as her father dropped a heavy tankard of ale before him. “I pipe a little,” Mog replied, uncharacteristically shy about his passion. He wondered what Armand had told them about him and was concerned he had exaggerated given that his friend was legendarily tone deaf, “Alas, me pipes are with me gear n’ won’t arrive ‘til Master Joe’s folk are here.” “Eat up, lad. I reckon you’re famished an’ there was no need t’ start cleanin’ up Vern’s old place alone. We’ll be givin’ the two of yeh a hand,” said Anluan. “Megan and Sheena almost have the quilts done and we have the mattresses finished,” Neave announced proudly, “We’ve got flags for the floor and new slates for the roof. It will be nice and cozy in there before snowfall.” “Thank ye, kindly,” Mog said, relieved that things were not as grim as they had first seemed. “Those are fine clothes, but they aren’t suitable for the kind of work that needs to be done before winter draws in,” Neave pointed out, “Come around the house after breakfast tomorrow and we’ll get you fitted in something more suitable.” “I couldn’ trouble yeh…” “I insist. You’re a guest and hopefully you’ll make this your home. I am grateful your alliance has offered assistance if even a fraction of what the dwarves are saying is true.” Talk turned to what still needed to be done by the mysterious date of the first snow. Once their attention was removed from him, Mog ate calmly even though his protesting belly would have been happier if he had simply tipped the contents of the bowl down his throat. He was soon warm inside and enjoying the afterglow of the potent ale. Someone must have refilled his tankard for there was always more when he lifted it to take a drink. “Armee, stop it,” Brigit complained. Mog glanced suspiciously at his friend, wondering what new trick he was playing but feeling a little too relaxed and tipsy to give it much care. His eyelids were heavy and the thought of a nice warm bed seemed like heaven. Through the comforting haze he heard Anluan laughing uproariously. “Is that how yeh drank me under the table?” the man roared as the others began to laugh, “You scoundrel.” “Armeh, I don’ know whatcha did, but ‘im gonna get e’en. Yeh knows tha’ don’ cha?” Mog slurred. A moment later he was comfortably asleep.
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