Offerings and Gifts.

[Cherny]

It's been a few days since Cherny's return from the Rememdium. A few quiet days, given the freezing weather; ice creeps in from the edges of the millpond, while the miller limps out each morning to scowl and grumble and knock icicles from slats and beams. Combined with snow on the roads and midwinter feasting, the creak and rattle of wagons on the lane has fallen silent, leaving the mill motionless and surly beneath crisp snow and leaden skies.

The floors have been swept as clean as they're going to get, the gears' teeth checked for wear and cracks and replaced as needed, set firmly in their sockets. There's no work for the miller's assistants, and so they are left to their own devices. Red-haired Kotek amuses himself with tormenting meek Padalec, while dark-eyed Cherny takes himself away.

He weaves a sly and winding path between the trees, doing his best to blur his footprints behind him, to the tumbledown shed that serves as his refuge and fastness. The door re-hung on hinges of knotted rope so that it might make some attempt at closing, it is shadowed and sheltered and dry within. Straw-stuffed sacks for bedding, more sackcloth hung on the walls to catch the chill air that knifes between the worm-eaten planks, and chalk figures carefully scrawled upon the wall that still lies exposed - letters, an alphabet's worth, and numerals besides, the earthen floor beneath scuffed and smoothed and scuffed again. Smelling of old leaves and rust-iron and candlewax and most of all dog, the last contributed by his friend - his best friend - the mastiff Many-Fights.

It's here that he makes his preparations, warding himself against cold and snow with solemn diligence. Strips of black broadcloth wound around thin legs, tied with twine at ankle and knee; double-layer of muslin wrapped about his face beneath a heavy woollen scarf; sturdy tunic - replaced with the last of Sera Five-Shillings' payment, the last having fallen foul of an archer's arrow and surgeon's blade - covered by that oft-patched and oversized coat, lopsided with an as-yet unaccustomed weight in the lining; and a warm cap tugged down over tufted black hair and chill-reddened ears.

At last he is prepared, and after a quick shake of narrow shoulders to settle his clothes more comfortably, he stoops to pick up his burden - a couple of flour-bags, strung together so that he might carry them over his shoulder, and a lighter bag bulked out with irregular lumps. They've a fair way to go, and not a great deal of daylight in which to make the journey. He grins to the hound, for all that the expression is masked behind scarf and muslin, it's clear enough in his muffled voice.

"Alright, let's go."

[catch]

He had wriggled into his coat as best as he may, already flecked with brindle-hair, already smelling strongly of dog, but it had taken Cherny's clever bacon-fingers to tie him in. He watches the boy's preparations with solemn, quiet eyes, thinking, figuring, as he often did now. Sometimes the thoughts came, faster and faster, making more and more sense. Of the Others, he could feel their remorse, but he could feel also their need. He must have these things. He must have them quickly, and it is the quickly part he did not tell Cherny-beast.

So he was silent, until the boy had been made ready; he was silent, except for a grunted I SHALL CARRY-CARRY. Worried, and just as chastising as any of the Remedium staff. He gets to his feet, stiffly, and turns just so in their little hideaway that Cherny-beast could not escape without Many-Fight's cooperation. And he shall not receive it until the heavier sacks were placed upon his muscular back. THEN WE GO-GO.

[Cherny]

He might've protested, a month or so ago, that he was fine, that it wasn't a problem. But if there's one thing he's learned in the time since it is limits, and when to accept them. So while there's a sigh it's more at his own lingering weakness, at the scar driven through his thin chest from front to back. He might've joked that maybe Many-Fights should just carry him, but he knew that his friend would gladly call his bluff on that.

"We c-can take t-turns. And, and rest. If you g-get tired of it." An offer made as much for his own benefit as for the hound's; establishing a pretext by which he might call for a pause to gather his breath without admitting as much. After all, a boy has his pride. Sometimes that's all he has.

It takes a little work to adjust the cords binding those flour-bags so that they might rest more-or-less comfortably across the mastiff's broad shoulders without dragging too close to the ground, without swinging so freely as to risk tangling or tripping. Some adjustment of that coat, too, smoothing it so that it might look smart, and taking the opportunity to scratch those beloved bacon-fingers through the fur of Many-Fights' neck and scalp, an affectionate contact that has become almost reflexive; the hound is within touching distance, and so the boy touches.

The lighter bag he slings over his shoulder, not much of a load at all; he'd press the dog to exchange burdens partway, or at intervals along the path. That was fair.

"Alright, n-now we can g-go."

[catch]

Take turns. Take turns. Many-Fights holds very still as the heaviness settles upon his back, and while Cherny makes his plans, Many-Fights is quite capable of making his own. Such plans include waddling very, very quickly away every time Cherny's bacon-fingers come close to those bindings, on the road, or ignoring him if he begins shouting. He is very good at both. He is fully aware that two-legs cannot run as fast as he can, and that there is not much they can do but rage impotently as he does what he will.

His will, this time, was altruistic. Already he had been against this, not out of jealousy or fear, but because Cherny-beast was so recently free of the sour-place, full of white-clad people who smelled of the stuff his old Master would put on his wounds, and very crafty with their brooms upon a noble dog's rump. And to bring such heavy gifts, as well! Many-Fights lifts his nose, and sniffs out the lingering, fading smell of blood , of heat and infection. He wanted that smell gone before Cherny-beast took such a trek through the snow.

GO GO GO, he says, amicably, and Many-Fights would squeeze quickly out of their little hide-out, grateful for the coat, and the heavy burden on his back. Both did much to warm him, behemoth with no fat, or even a proper fur coat. Man had meant him for other things. His feet, however, were frozen, and he grumbles and shifts, a constant litany of how he does not like winter or snow.

[Cherny]

Cherny huddles into his coat as they leave the small shack behind, an island of shelter in woods grown bitterly unkind; he has little true love for the cold - oh, snow is exciting, yes, fun to kick through or scoop up or sculpt or throw; but it's best enjoyed with the promise of a warm fire and hot drink at the end of it, something to thaw chilled bones and set numbed flesh tingling as sensation returns. To live in it constantly is no fun at all, and he nods and stutters sympathy to the hound's plight, thinking aloud about how they might address it - wraps of cloth like those around his own shins, perhaps; or he might spend some of his hoarded coin on some scraps of leather, and learn to make shoes. He'd have to help the hound put them on or take them off, yes, but he'd do so gladly.

The boy's healing, in any case; healing well, with matching creases in the skin of his chest and his back, still tender but no longer raw; his lung still hitches now and again, when he takes too sudden a breath, when the air is too cold or too laden with dust or smoke, but he is much improved. The blood-scent about him is old, dried, soaked into that much-repaired coat rather than carried on each breath, no longer stinking of fever and hot corruption.

He still tires more quickly than before, and their tramp through the snow requires regular pauses while he catches his breath; brief interludes in which he shares strips of cured bacon or dried beef from his pocket, a shrewd incentive to keep them both going - they'll pause by that tree up ahead, or once they crest that ridge, or cross that ice-crusted stream; a few moments noisily gnawing and chewing before heading on again, usually as soon as Cherny raises the idea of trading burdens for a time. He sees through the hound's ruse readily enough, but knows also that his friend is stubborn when he needs to be, and breath used to argue the point might be better spent on walking.

[catch]

Shoes was an exciting idea. Many-Fights was intrigued, and would then ask Cherny-beast many questions, because of all part of Cherny he had not quite made an inspection of his feet. He knew little enough, except that his former thought of boots being actual, human feet was very wrong, and also very silly. He would sniff about Cherny's shoes, occasionally, and would ask such questions. Scholar's questions. How did dogs become this way, while humans became another? Why did Humans have thumbs, and things like dogs did not? Mice had thumbs, of a sort; why, then, did they not wear clothing and act as humans do? Things that festered in his mind, and Cherny had no hope of answering to satisfaction. Many-Fights would not be cross.

The bacon and meats were met with suspicion, for Many-Fights could grasp how such a thing could ruin his careful plans. As they went on, however, and as Cherny-beast must make more stops, it only convinced the dog that Cherny should take no more burdens, and he took such treats cautiously, with an eye rolling about to keep itself upon those clever bacon-fingers, lest they descend to undo ties and straps.

GOOD-GOOD, CHERNY-BEAST? Many-Fights would ask, the worry in clear in his mind-words; he, too, was weary, but it would take hot coals for him to admit it. CLOSE-CLOSE. CHERNY-BEAST SMELLS?

Distant, out of place; the smell of cheery wood-smoke just barely drifted on the wind.

[Cherny]

Questions, countless questions which the boy answers as well as his breath allows, as best a bright boy can - with suppositions and guesswork, trying to think of answers that seem reasonable. Thumbs are thus for picking things up or gripping them - humans have neither fierce teeth nor tearing claws, and must carry tools and weapons instead. Mice don't need clothes as they have fur to keep them warm; on the matter of behaviour he cannot answer, save with a grin at the idea of mice living tiny and secret human-lives beneath the floorboards. He feels that these are the best questions, the ones that are hardest to answer, as they require wisdom and cleverness to untangle; he will ask them at school, and see if Sera Olwak or her assistants have any answers, or if they know of a book which might. The boy holds it as an article of faith that for every good question there must be a book somewhere with the answer, if one can only find it and read it. That is what books are for, after all.

That sniffing about his feet has Cherny sitting on a stump for one of their rests, tugging off a wooden-soled shoe and woollen sock beneath to let Many-Fights examine pink and wriggling toes; comparing that foot with the hound's own hindpaw, seeing how they are not entirely different, if the boy walks on his toe-tips - here, the same joints of hip and knee and ankle, but with different lengths between them. Footwear tugged on again before he grows too cold, and in the next pause they can compare forelimbs - shoulder and elbow and wrist, but with the greatest difference being in the digits at the end, between claw-tipped paw-pads and slender agile fingers.

The breaks grow closer together, last longer, just as Cherny's answers become shorter and less verbose, the cold air setting his scarred lung to aching with each breath. After suggesting it a couple of times he gives up on the idea of trading burdens, recognising well enough that it would be putting pride above good sense; there is guilt at letting his friend carry that burden, but also gladness that he insists. So the scent of smoke comes as a relief, a sign that it is not much further to go, and once he's pulled down his scarf to get a sniff of it the boy nods with as much enthusiasm as he can muster; for this last stretch they'll walk together, side by side between the trees, the boy's hand resting lightly upon the hound's broad back.

[catch]

Clever, clever Cherny. He shows Many-Fights these things, and it gives the dog much to think about. He stares at bare toes, thinking them terribly long and soft they are. But then they make these shoes, chopping down trees to make them, or taking the hides off of beasts. They had answers. They were not content with many things, and Many-Fights has a name, finally, for the other hunger he feels. The brain-hunger.


His worry is real, and he, too, almost sighed with relief, going slow for Cherny's sake. Despite the wood-smoke, a clearing or a house cannot be seen, even as Many-Fights comes to a stop. It would take a moment, perhaps, for the eyes to adjust, to realize that this tumble of stones and dry, brown, hanging moss, the cascade of last year's pine-needles, was a home, a window-eye peeking from under the fringe of frosted snow, and a door that was little more than a tumble of logs.

And if Cherny's realization was a summons, that tumble of logs swings free, and there is Bertram, red-faced, his face showing both surprise and not a small amount of pleasure. "Well! Come, boy, you'll catch your death out there!" Imperious gesture, and there is the feel that he is used to such things being obeyed. Many-Fights would help, keeping Cherny's fingers on his fur, but eager to get into the warmth that promises.

A small, one-room house, this woodsman's dwelling, a sleeping hutch to one side. There is a small table, and only once chair, which Bertram shall wave to Cherny with a look that speaks no nonsense shall be acceptable. A cheery hearth-fire, and from the rafters and along the walls is the bounty that shall sustain him through the winter-months; cans and cans of jams, pickled-things, salted meats, barrels and buckets of nuts, every space crammed with the business of life and living.

"Your lips are fair blue, boy! Sit you there, and I shall get you something hot."

[Cherny]

It's a different place from their last meeting, he can tell that much even with the bare winter branches and blanket of snow; in the woods, among the trees, and there's uncertainty to his posture as he peers between the trunks, searching for the source of the smoke-scent. It takes a tilt of his head and narrowed eyes to make out what might be shapes formed by design rather than accident, and by that point it's opening, becoming a door and a hooded window and a wall of stacked stones.

The movement startles him back a step, thin fingers tightening into Many-Fights' brindled hide, but there's a laugh of relief as the Red Man's face peers out into the snow; the boy's face is a mirror, as much surprise and as much delight, and he ducks into a polite if somewhat hasty bow.

"G-good day, Ser B-bertram." He might say more, might explain how he thought he might drop by to say hello, but he's already being waved into the woodsman's house and it does look terribly well-sheltered and warm in there. Not like the old shack that he and the hound claim as their refuge, no, for that is lopsided and rickety through neglect; this has been built carefully, sturdily, but with little change made to the materials used; unfinished stones slotted together where they will, stout logs with the bark still on, unsplit. It's made from parts of the woodlands, constructed to remain part of the woodlands rather than an imposition.

In any case the boy doesn't have to be asked twice, pausing only long enough to let Many-Fights waddle in a pace ahead of him rather than both trying to squeeze through the door at once. His eyes are wide as he crosses the threshold, taking in the shelves and jars and containers, a veritable trove of all sorts of foodstuffs, a hoard to rival any bear's.

"Th-thank you, s-ser. Th-that'd be v-very good." Something hot, yes, something to loosen limbs that are starting to shiver now he's stopped moving around so much. He takes the offered seat gladly, stifling a cough or two into his coatsleeve, and discreetly gestures Many-Fights closer so he might rub at the hound's brindled brow and chilled ears, the friction restoring feeling to dogflesh and bacon-fingers both.

[catch]

Once the sawn-log door is shut, the heat curls back in, becoming snug without sweltering. Bertram knew quite a few things about keeping a hut like this from draftiness, even with the faint, rustling suggestion of things in the rafters, the occasionally, drowsy chirp of some bird or another. That they should feel so comfortable, to be shut in with Bertram the better part of months, spoke volumes of the man. As Many-Fights cuddled up to Cherny, thanking the boy for his efforts by virtue of silent, wet lips pillowing into his lap, Bertram bustled about the small, stone stove, his antler barely brushing the roof that, somehow, seemed far above.

A bit of spice, free-greens, and a generous dollop of gold from a clay pot, and Cherny would quickly be presented with a large, stone cup of hot water and mint and honey; not quite tea, but, perhaps, as fortifying. "For you - though I should be cross, agreeing to bring him in such weather," he'll say, eyeing the contented dog, but laying warm water in a pan, which Many-Fights abandoned Cherny for, briefly.

GOOD GOOD, he thinks, satisfied as the hot water warms him from the inside, a mind-mumble that he did not mean to broadcast, but did.

Bertram sighs, his own mint-tea cup in his broad hands, and gives an equally stern look to Cherny, comfortable enough in leaning a hip against spare boardspace. "And you, fellow. Eager for another stay in the Remedium, I take it? When he wasn't with you, he was with me, moaning over his inadequacies. What possessed you to take my path, this deep into winter?"

[Cherny]

He swings his feet a little as he sits, fingers stinging and tingling as circulation returns; watching Bertram for a time, noticing again the man's confidence, his comfort within his own skin. In truth the boy had been a little surprised that the Red Man remained such - after their first meeting in which Bertram had worn the autumn foliage like a robe some small part of the boy had expected him to change with the seasons, to shift from the vibrant hues of falling leaves to an austere and wintery white. But no, he realises with a touch of colour to his own cold-chapped cheeks. Bertram is the Red Man, and that suits him.

By the time that tea is ready the boy's gaze has drifted to the rafters above, craning curiously for a glimpse of the creatures making their home up there - maybe a flicker of feathers or glint of beady eyes. His attention returns to his host as Bertram offers him a drink, though, accepting it gratefully, thin hands wrapping around the heavy vessel and lifting it to let him breathe the fragrant steam. It's as well that Many-Fights has his own drink for distraction, as the boy's hands are now otherwise occupied.

"N-no I, I asked h-him to." He offers quickly, taking responsibility for their being here. A slight wince at that mention of the Rememdium, perhaps not expecting the Red Man to be quite so well-informed, but on hasty consideration realising that it was pretty much inevitable. He'd not blame Many-Fights for that, it was only natural that the hound would pass on such grave news.

So he bears the man's reproach quietly, more readily than he'd endured similar scolding from Rememdium staff and Sera Gloria, and tries to think of a good reason for making the journey, for pestering and nagging the hound into leading him here in the depths of winter.

"I, I w-wanted to s-see you again." A shrug of narrow shoulders, aware that such an answer was hardly very compelling - except it had seemed so to him at the time, a pull in his chest, a need, after so many weeks stewing and stifling in a house of the weak and the wounded and the unwell, to see the Red Man again. To spend a span of time in the presence of someone who seemed so solidly alive. But words fail him, leave him unable to articulate such feelings, and he sits hunched with eyes downcast. A glance for Many-Fights as he laps noisily at his hot water, and he brightens as he remembers.

"I b-brought y-you something." A pretext, really, an excuse to make the trip, but hopefully enough to win him forgiveness for such foolishness. He sets the cup carefully on the tabletop and leans forward to pick at the knotted twine and strong that secures those bags across Many-Fights' shoulders. It's tricky work, and after a moment he hops down to crouch beside the hound, tugging with impatient fingers until his friend is relieved of that burden carried so stubbornly from the mill. Two plump bags of close-woven canvas, hefted over one arm as the boy stands, his free hand rubbing at Many-Fights' stalwart shoulders.

"It's, it's f-flour. For b-b-baking." A decent quantity of the stuff, it'd seemed as he was filling those bags, enough for plenty of bread or cakes or whatever else. But here, surrounded by such a stockpile of winter supplies, he can't help but feel it to be a touch less impressive than he'd hoped.

Still, it'll be useful, and so he holds out his tribute with both hands for the Red Man to accept.

[catch]

Because he wanted to, the boy says. Bertram's face softens, and he cannot help but shake a crowned head in silence at Cherny's reasoning. "That," he says, hesitates, and stops. He takes a draught, and begins again, and very, very softly - just for Cherny, for Many-Fights was grasping his new-knowledge with all his teeth, says OTHER IS NOT-USED. A mind muttering, an aside, and he stands perfectly still for Cherny to unwrap that burden, giving himself a rough shake to re-settle his coat and relieve tense, sore muscles. He would never admit his weariness, not even under the greatest torture, and went back to slopping up his water.


Bertram stares, and that is an apt word for what he does. He does not glare, or lift his eyebrows, or any number of things. He simply stares, bereft of feeling and knowing, at the gift presented to him, and it was not for some heartbeats that his lips spread, and spread, and he lets loose a soft of astonished guffaw. "Because you wanted to, Ser Cherny, and because you wanted to bring me flour." Flour was a town-food; it required vast fields and hard hands to grow, or coin to spend in town. And while Bertram may have much of the latter, he could not go in to town. But here, here, was flour, and the Red Man sets his mug aside to take the boy's burden from him, waving him back into his seat. He pries open one of the bags, and he stares ever-more at the mounds of soft, fluffy stuff, like snow.

"Well," he says, and that that one word could express such emotion, such dawning gratitude and thick with tears that he was too kingly to shed, and he gropes for his cup, and takes another hefty gulp. "Well," again, more forceful, more cheery. More like himself, though his smile never wanes, and his eyes are bright in the cheeriness of the cabin. "I'd say we should have some biscuits with our tea, eh?"

And he would go about, doing just that; and for the most part, he is silent, but sometimes he will speak to them both, Cherny and Many-Fights, curious about the town, themselves. Many-Fights would boast about a tussle with some farmdog or other, and interesting smell, the things he had learned from Cherny. Soon enough there are crude flour-biscuits, roasted more than baked, but with jam and honey to overcome the coarse taste. And, for Many-Fights, a carve off a hunk of smoked bacon.

[Cherny]

"Y-yes, ser. B-because I'd n-not s-seen you in, in ages, and you've b-been kind with the, the b-berries, and c-coins. For m-meat." Food for the hound with whose care Cherny had been entrusted; coins he'd used very carefully, every penny spent on good cuts of beef and mutton, or meaty bones for the dog to gnaw and crack between powerful jaws. "And you d-don't go into t-town." Recalling their first meeting, and how Bertram had spoken of the town whose streets he could never walk. Something in the man's red-brown eyes, some note to his rich voice, had struck the boy as familiar; a subtle sadness, a loneliness, and for the mill-boy that struck a sharp resonance. Why else had he taken to visiting the Broken Dagger? Why else did he prize his few friends so highly, protect them so fiercely? He knew that feeling.

He thinks for a moment, considering his words carefully. "So I th-thought you might like someone to v-visit."

There's undisguised relief when the flour bags are accepted as good; doubts and uncertainties over whether the Red Man would like such an offering dispelled in the instant that smile brightens his features. An expression mirrored on Cherny's thin features, the boy as pleased to give the gift as Bertram is to receive it.

The man proposes biscuits and the boy nods enthusiastically, sitting and watching as flour and water are mixed and kneaded together; and though he is at first content to sip his mint tea and observe, it's not long before he cannot help but join in.

The lighter sack he'd carried, for the moment left beside his chair, holds a couple of loaves the boy had made the day before, this being one of the chores assigned to the miller's assistants; the duty passes between them from day to day, with varying results. Surly Kotek had little love for the task, mashing the dough and leaving it in ill-shaped lumps to bake, often burned as he lost interest and wandered off for a nap; meek Padalec was fearfully diligent, producing tidy, uniform loaves and rolls, hovering nervously around the oven while they baked, and was brought to the verge of tears if they didn't emerge perfect, dreading a disappointed glance or disapproving frown from the miller; Cherny, for his part, strove to make his bread interesting - no two loaves alike, the dough twisted and folded and rolled into all kinds of shapes, often attempting to emulate the fancy braided breads he sees in bakery windows.

It's this approach that he brings to the task, shrugging out of his coat and rolling up his sleeves to reveal stick-like wrists, kneeling on the chair so that he might work at the table alongside Bertram, enjoying this opportunity to be helpful. He's happy to talk as he works, raspy voice chattering and stuttering as he gossips about the town, about the farmers and bakers who come to the mill, about his studies at school, tracing rough-formed letters in flour-dust on the tabletop; also full of praise for Many-Fights' exploits, how well he's learning his letters, and was always asking very good questions, how close he came to catching a squirrel, allowing the hound to describe the most exciting parts. Of his time in the Rememdium there is little to say, save that mint tea is far better than healing-draughts, that he was glad to have Many-Fights and his other friends there, and even more glad to be well again. Kneading, rolling and patting biscuit-dough into interesting shapes meanwhile - some formed of tightly-coiled spirals, others with crimped edges, or tops dimpled by prodding fingertips. Now that he's thawed out the boy is increasingly animated, even garrulous, quick to grin or to croak out a laugh, often just in delight at being here, in such company.

When eventually the biscuits are done, picked hot from the stovetop and slathered with sweet honey and jam, he's long lost the shy reserve that had marked their first meeting. Still polite, yes, still immensely respectful, but much more sure of himself, of Bertram's hospitality. The biscuits themselves, meanwhile, are surprisingly good given their basic preparation, a testament to the miller's skill.

The boy picks a spot on the floor near the fire - quite deliberately leaving the chair for his host, who has been most kind thus far - and beckons Many-Fights closer for more fussing from clever fingers. Sitting in sock-clad feet, snow-sodden shoes propped up by the stove to dry, he munches cheerily on fresh-baked biscuits and jam, bright eyes roving around the walls and rafters but ever returning to his host; enjoying the warmth of the woodsman's home, the sense of ease, of cosiness, of safety.

[catch]

And Bertram had the sense to not protest, to shoo the boy back to his chair. Cherny knew his own body, and he knew, too, the price for overtaxing it. He would worry, but would say nothing, and it is a grand time they both have, this unlikely pair - this unlikely trio, for often Many-Fights will deign to lift himself from where he lay and try to stick his snout into everything, mumbling and grumbling about how he did not like biscuits, and yet demanding tribute, suspicious of any good-parts they may be hiding in their hands. The red man would tilt his head towards boy and beast, and laugh, and ask a question or two where clarification was wanted, or needed. He positively rolls with laughter at Many-Fights' account of the squirrel, a thick, furry sort of laughter, one that was full and wholesome and good.

In the end, it was good of Cherny to help, for the boy's practice made up for Bertram's inexperience. It was not often that flour fell into his lap like this, in such quantity, and they are saved from being half-dough lumps. Bertram would narrow his eyes, but he would sit in that chair, as if it were the finest oak or the finest piece of marble instead of the crudely-carved thing it was, twisted, like everything else picked out and only modestly shaped because it already looked like a chair. He, too, was at ease - with Many-Fights, his creation, with Cherny, a friend.

When there is a moment, a brief lull in conversation, when man and beast would peer into the wood-fire in contentment, Bertram would speak. "I'm very glad you came, Cherny-lad," he'll say, slowly. His speech is never planned, and it sounded awkward, coming from his mouth. But he didn't mind. These were his feelings, and he wanted Cherny to know. "It gets lonesome, here, in the winter. I don't want you to tax yourselves, but - you are welcome here, any time." He puts a hand out, a friendly, coarse hand, settling on Cherny's raven-black hair in a gentle ruffle.

[Cherny]

That touch was a familiar gesture, and reminds the boy of Catch; a small intimacy, a show of gentle affection, a broad paw resting so carefully atop his head. He lifts his head into that touch with a grin, eyes briefly closing as if receiving a benediction, before craning to meet his host's gaze with one eye.

"I'm g-glad I c-could v-v-visit, ser. It's no g-good being alone. I'd v-very much like t-to come again." Bertram's offer of hospitality is recognised for what it is - an invitation, a request, and Cherny resolves to make the journey again, already thinking of what other things he might bring as gifts. Treasures from the town, maybe, things that couldn't be found or crafted from foraged materials. Maybe some butter to go with the bread; maybe whatever wine he could afford, as a special treasure. He'd find something, certainly. Something good, something fitting.

For now he sits cosy and content in the company of friends, slouching back against Many-Fights' ribs at the feet of the man he secretly thinks of as the Red King. After a time he drowses, worn out from the walk through the snowy woods and the thrill of time spent in such welcoming surroundings, lulled by the glow of the fire and the food in his belly. His eyelids grow heavy, irresistibly so, and his chin sinks to rest upon his thin chest.

A little longer, and he sleeps.