Marching: Red Meeting

[catch]

It was afternoon. It was not the time for doing these things, but that was not essential. There were only a handful of things that would be needed. The Mill, then; not in it's fruit, but near the end of it's day, winding down with a groaning, and a creaking of wheels.

If Cherny were to leave - when his foot steps over the invisible boundary, set by him for this unusual friend, then there would the broad, brindled-dog be. There is something different about him, this day. There is the typical, gentle joy, the wagging of a cropped tail. But there is, too, a purpose, as if Many-Fights has, after many nights, finally come to a decision.

CHERNY-BEAST, he bellows, though not as loudly as he typically does, as if worried that someone else may search for the voice. CHERNY-BEAST, WOULD YOU COME WITH MANY-FIGHTS TO SEE-MEET-SEE. He does not say who. He cannot give an answer. But he sits, and tilts his broad head up to regard Cherny, his face alien and impassive, a lie to the brooding in his voice.

[Cherny]

Now that the peak of the harvest has passed his business has slowed a little, a gentle, steady trickle of farmers and bakers as steady and reliable as the millrace itself. Working days in the mill are long, though not as long as they were over the summer; the miller prefers to run his wheels only in the hours of daylight - perhaps to save on tallow - so as the sun sinks lower in the sky the sluice is closed, the water slows to a trickle and the wheels roll to a halt. The clearing is quiet.

It's part of the day's routine, as today - like every other day - that stillness is followed a few minutes later by a short, scrawny figure emerging from the mill's back door; across the vegetable garden, past the guardian scarecrow, and out through the wicker gate - careful to close it behind him, lest hungry woodland creatures find their way to the crop of root vegetables and squash destined for the mill's dinner table. Hands, face and hair still damp from hasty washing, clothes beneath that hand-me-down coat still smudged here and there with grain dust and flour.

Cherny greets Many-Fights, his friend, in his usual manner with a grin and a hand outstretched to be scented or licked or to give scratches, as the hound prefers on any given day. A subtle difference today, but not enough for him to forsake this treasured ritual.

The hound issues an invitation, and it doesn't take more than a moment for the boy to nod in agreement, one last glance behind him for the mill; he'll not speak within sight of the building for fear of discovery, but his assent is plain enough. So a gesture, then, palm open to the woods before them. Lead the way.

The boy follows close beside the hound, curious as to what it might involve - who Many-Fights wants him to meet - and entirely trusting that he would be safe with his friend at his side.

[catch]

There is relief, and Many-Fights passes his tongue over Cherny's waiting hand. But they must go, and Many-Fights walks with his stiff, waddling gait, taking Cherny-beast with him, going slow so that the boy may keep up.

And it is a walk, a stroll through all the Glories of Autumn, with leaves every shade of Fire, and a crisp, cheery wind that carries distant pies and apples upon it, with squirrels scolding and swearing from the trees, at Cherny, and the dog, at each-other, battles as grim as any human-fight, the outcome being slow, terrible starvation in the winter. Last year, this had not happened; last year, many things had died, for the Lake and the Forest had been healed too late for balance to come again.

Ah, Balance. That was what Many-Fights had trouble grasping.

They walked for a long, long time. An hour, possibly more; the sun had long moved from it's position by the time they come upon the clearing, Many-Fights shouldering past a fallen log and a tumble of boulders with little difficulty, forging a path for Cherny to follow. He does not say they are here, but he stops.

There is a man in the clearing.

He looks like any forester that could be found, working the Wood around Myrken, with rough, woolen cape, and home-spun clothes, and boots that were not so much boots as slips of leather, bound to the calf and thigh by woolen lashings. He was slim, and tall; his eyes were a peculiar brown that seemed almost red. In fact, that was what he was; save for his clothing, the color of brown leaves, he was red, from his curly hair to his eyes, and even his skin, tanned though it was, was red at the cheeks and the nose. He had no beard, though he had a scattering of red stubble, the better to see a log, friendly, honest face.

He was so well-blended with the autumn colors that he could not be seen until he moved, bowing over to offer Many-Fights a hand, and the dog sheepishly tucks his head under that palm for a handful of heartbeats before he turns back to Cherny, and sits at the boy's side.

The man had a horn. A red horn, not centered, as a unicorn's would be, but growing in swooping, geometric majesty from his right temple, forming a sort of half-crown about his head; it is every elk's horn, and the dream of an elk's horn, a perfection that could not exist in nature. There is a nest in it, an old nest, and all it had done was hide it all the more. Now, having moved to pet Many-Fights, it seemed obvious, where once it had been hidden.

Those red-brown eyes find the boy, then, and he smiles at him - a kindly smile.

"Many-Fights has told me much about you," he says, with a voice like a honey-filled bear, the kind that seem to eat only roots and berries, and occasionally fish.

"I am the one who woke him up."

[Cherny]

Once clear of the mill, once free of that clearing and the miller who inhabits it, the boy talks - an entire day's worth of words penned behind his teeth like the millpond, now allowed to run free in a torrent. Small things, trivialities, something that Kotek one-eye had done, how Padalec big-ears had trembled and scurried to his own corner of the grain floor, how the miller himself had been pleased with Cherny's diligence and rewarded him with an extra penny - as he had more and more often, now that the boy had need for them. Thoughts that had occurred to him during the day, plans for the future - maybe find some more timbers to shore up the old outbuilding he'd claimed as his own, or blankets, or this or that.

It passes the time, in between pauses to watch the squirrels or birds skip through the boughs above, the arrowheads of geese toiling southward across the autumn sky.

Then suddenly there is a clearing. Suddenly there is someone there, seeming to melt with a movement from the russet treeline, and the boy can't help but start slightly, taking a reflexive pace back. The man was strange, he was strange, and the boy's dark eyes linger on the colour of him, rich and vibrant and absolutely matched to the forest around him; that horn, that branching antler that serves to make him seem even more a part of the woodland, and for a time Cherny is unsure, even afraid.

But Many-Fights walks up to him readily, accepts that touch, and the boy is immediately more at ease. Still cautious, but as one might be towards something that is not frightening but merely new and unfamiliar.

Such is his trust in his friend.

So the boy nods slowly as the red man speaks, and by all accounts it is he who is out of place here - black hair, dark eyes, once-black coat, a single scratch of charcoal amid flaming red and orange and gold. As the hound returns to his side his hand reaches absently to touch, to rest thin fingers upon brindled hide. He nods his head in greeting, slowly, features pale and solemn, eyes bright and alert.

"Thank you."

[catch]

He laughs, a full, rich laugh, and the horned man straightens. "He prefers you, I think. You help him, little one. You are... special." Different would have been a word, but the Red Man knows that it would be the wrong one. He considers, and nods. "Yes, very special. Many-Fights is more than my dog, now. He is your friend, and I would like to be your friend as well."

He is very sincere; his face is easy to read, and he does not seem to lie. But, then, what horned man sends his talking dog to lure little boys into friendship? Ah, but he had not sent Many-Fights to the boy intentionally. He had hoped the dog would grow, but it would be slow, and the beast had, instinctively, found himself this. The Horned Man dips his hand into his pocket, and he pulls free a coin - shiny, silver, a large coin that would fit easily into a boy's hand. This, he holds out to Cherny, with an encouraging smile.

"Well, go on. You're light as feathers, and that won't do. A coin, then, and you shall care for my dog. And - you see! - here is another. One for Many-Fights, one for you, my lad. That will buy you many a treat, hm?" And, indeed, there is another coin; they are Cherny's, for the taking, discs of radiant silver.

"Only the best meat for my dog, you understand. I'll provide for him, and all you will do is - teach him. Speak to him. Do this for me, and you'll make yourself a tidy cache of coins, eh?"

[Cherny]

Uncertainty; an inner debate reflected in dark eyes that flick from those gleaming coins to the man's features, the antler, the bird's nest; red skin, red hair, red eyes. That he calls Many-Fights my dog might prickle, save that the words were given the same tone with which the boy might say my friend. Meanwhile his features are open, his voice warm, his words encouraging, soothing.

The coin is bright as the moon in the Red Man's palm, and Cherny thinks of what it might buy; his toil in the mill earns him a few copper pennies for a good day's work, or food and board alone if the miller isn't especially impressed. He's done his best to impress his master lately, now that he's found a use for the money, taking those dull coins to a butcher in Myrkentown to buy scraps and offal by the bucket; poor meat, but the best his coin will buy, because a dog so large has a comparable appetite and the boy couldn't bear to see his friend go hungry.

With a silver coin he might buy proper cuts of meat - thick slabs of beef or joints of mutton, bones to gnaw or bury as the hound desired, enough to keep Many-Fights as strong and healthy as he'd been when the boy had first met him. No starveling stray he!

And it's this thought that has him stepping slowly towards the Red Man, only breaking that touch upon the hound's hide when he must. A cautious and sidling approach as if ready to jump back if it proves a trick; the man seems kind, yes, but the boy's spent enough time in the Broken Dagger to know the value of wariness. Close enough to reach, to stretch out thin fingers for those coins, resisting the urge to snatch his prize and dart away again. That would seem greedy, as if his only concern were the money.

So he takes a single coin, and a short step back so that he might meet the Red Man's gaze without craning his neck so much.

"I j-just need the one, s-ser." Explaining with great care so as not to cause offense, in case the man might think his gift spurned. "For th-the meat. The rest - the c-caring - I'd d-do that anyway." He glances back to the hound, his friend, and is reassured that he has made the right choice. Having resisted the impulse to grab and run there is relief, and a greater confidence as he looks back to meet that autumnal gaze.

The Red Man cares for Many-Fights, yes, and would see him well-fed, that's fine. That he thinks Cherny would need payment for being the hound's friend, as if he were a mere beast to be tended and fed and watered, that sat less comfortably. There was no need for the Red Man to buy Cherny's friendship with Many-Fights; and in any event, such things weren't earned with coins no matter how bright they shine, how cool they feel between his fingers.

So, a compromise. An accord offered, and accepted on his own terms. And with that, a question.

"Who are y-you?"

[catch]

There is a smile, then, to the red man's lips; a peek of strong, white teeth. There is a look to his face, as if Cherny has passed a test, some very important test. Many-Fights is oddly quiet, and he will support Cherny without restraining him, he will be there, without malice, or any intent to stop his Cherny-Beast, should the boy wish to flee.

And it is only now that he speaks. MANY-FIGHTS IS FINE-BEAST WITH CHERNY-BEAST MEATS, he will say, he will assure Cherny and the Red Man of that, anxious to please; he is, after all, only a dog. He looks from one to the other, and wags his stumped tail. GOOD-GOOD OTHERS, CHERNY-BEAST. MANY-FIGHTS IS VERY SMART.

"That he is," The Red Man would say, and he would pocket that other, shining coin, and it was as if it had never existed. "Well, Cherny-Beast. It seems I shall be bargained with, even for my own dog! Well. That sounds like a deal to me, and a fair one."

Then Cherny asks his question, and the Red Man cants his head, and that would distress the birds in the nest, if there were any to be seen. "My name? Well. Many-Fights call me Others, but I'm only me, and I am known as Bertram. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

[Cherny]

The boy holds onto his own coin for now, thumb absently tracing over the metal as it warms in his fist. The deal was accepted as fair, and that's reassuring as well; his answer had pleased the Red Man, and somehow he knows that it is good. Another glance back, his empty hand held out to Many-Fights in invitation, in request; a need for the reassurance of touch, of closeness.

Another span of quiet moments as the boy makes a closer inspection of the Red Man, his sturdy clothes and strange features; he's growing accustomed to strangeness, of course - tentacled squid-boys and jewel-draped fae and odd-eyed madmen and more besides - so this is more a matter of curiosity, of acquainting himself with something novel.

Watchful, but increasingly unafraid.

He might ask why the man's so very red, why he has that one antler, why not two, or none, what sort of birds make their nest in it. He might ask why he's not been seen at the Broken Dagger, where he'd fit in quite readily.

The man gives his name, and that's not quite what the boy had asked but... well, it's a start. He already knows Cherny's name, after a fashion, and says he's pleased to meet him, and the boy really can't recall that he's had anyone say that before. So at last a smile, shy and self-conscious, and a small bow because that is polite and respectful and the man carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who knows himself to be important. Moreso than a flour-dusted mill boy, certainly.

"I've n-not heard much of y-you, ser." A little apologetic at that, is if it were a failing on his own part. "B-but if you're Many-F-fights friend then I'm glad t-to meet you too." The hound has vouched for the man in the ways that matter. Hesitation for just a moment, before he holds out his hand, ready to nonchalantly draw it back if the gesture is ignored or rebuffed as presumptious.

[catch]

The boy's hand smells of Many-Fight's dusty hide, and of flour, of labor. And, before he takes it, the Red Man - Bertram - he will return Cherny's bow, gravely, with a Courtesan's Grace that seemed strange with his antlers, his wool, his wildness. Not that there was anything animal about him, aside from the horn. Then he will take that hand, and he will smile at Cherny's shyness, but kindly.

His hand was warm, and the palms were hard, rough, used to many labors. It will linger, for only the proper amount, but even that handshake cannot fully complete before Many-Fights bullies his way in, the dog still learned, and puts his own, horny paw atop theirs with a mute, doggish huff of impatience. It makes the Red Man laugh, and he drops the handshake with the boy, quickly, so that boyish skin will not be ripped by Many-Fight's hard feet, and Bertram cradles Many-Fight's paw in his own.

"We have met, you uncouth hound," he says, roughly, but with affection. Then, to Cherny. "I do not go into town," Bertram says, his voice still full of that honeyed good-humor, but with an edge to it, a blinking of sadness, and of wariness. Perhaps Many-Fights was telling him these things in Cherny's mind - or, in truth, the man is very used to the stares, the unasked questions, that he shall provide Cherny with a few answers. "I... understand that there is not much a stigma, for how I look. There are worst things that lurk, now, in that place, than a strange man with an elk's horn." And, perhaps, that is why he avoids it. He thinks a moment, and he settles down, onto his haunches, so that he may be more eye-to-eye with Cherny.

"I would rather avoid the stares, little Cherny, and the trouble it might bring. I have lived in the Woods -" and the way he says it, he does not mean just the Myrken Woods alone - "... a long time, almost since I was a lad not much bigger than you."

[Cherny]

His clothes, practical and hard-wearing, might mark him as a forester, a hunter - not necessarily wild but of the wild. His manner, though, all graceful strength and regal poise that sets him apart from such woodsmen as Cherny has encountered; such assurance lets him claim the forest as his domain.

He's heard stories of proud monarchs, stern and wise and crowned with gold; the Red Man's presence stirs echoes of those tales, crowned with branching horn and robed in blazing Autumn, and his heart swells to think that such a grand lord takes pleasure in his company.

Many-Fights' interruption is met with good humour and the boy can't help but echo the Red Man's laughter, though his own sounds thin and hoarse in comparison. He reaches an arm across the hound's thick neck to pull that broad head to his side, relaxing by the moment, He's glad his friend brought him here, to meet Ser Bertram.

He says he has lived in the Woods a long time, and the boy believes it without question. He belongs in the woods, and as he speaks of visiting town the foolishness of such an idea becomes readily apparent - how could the grimy streets and mean little houses of Myrkentown hope to accommodate the Red Man? How could crowded shopfronts and muddy cobbles suffice for one accustomed to the soaring vaults and rich carpets of the Woods? Who among the scurrying crowds would spare a moment to glance up and see that royalty walked among them? No, a ridiculous notion.

So he feels he understands Bertram's reasons, and agrees with them; the man does not deserve that attention, the vulgar stares and brutish suspicions of the townsfolk; they might as well paw and grasp at him with filthy hands, and it would be as much of an affront. He was too august, too noble for such indignities. His kind eyes and easy smile would be met with stones and fists and curses, and the boy could not abide such a thought.

"Y-you look f-fine to me, ser." The boy's tone is earnest, as if to reassure this lord of the wild that the fault doesn't lie with him. "But you're r-right, they'd not kn-know better. They're s-scared a lot." He can't blame them, really - he's seen some of the frightening things that visit the Broken Dagger, met Drow face-to-face and barely escaped, seen a Marshall die a bloody death and then return. He's heard other stories from the farmers and bakers who visit the mill, of Baies and Ashfiends and walking dead and hidden cults who harvest eyes. He knows they've plenty to fear, and it's a mark of the Red Man's kindness that he tries not to frighten them further. When he speaks again his voice is quiet, conspiratorial, as if anxious not to be overheard; there's good reason for this, as he requests what might be a secret, a confidence, dark eyes wide. He has sudden suspicions, ideas, and must know if he is correct.

"Are you a k-king, ser?"

[catch]

The boy understands. He is kind about it, and that does much service to little Cherny, more than all the Governors and Men of Office combined. Many-Fights sighs, and he puts his head where the boy directs, nudging his blunt snout into the comforting embrace of Cherny's arms. He does not move as Bertram laughs at Cherny's question, for Many-Fights half expected it. Oh, but it is not an unkind laugh! It is a laughter full of true mirth.

"Oh, no, Cherny lad! I'm no King, though - thank you for your kind words. Kind words. I can only hope that you can teach Many-Fights such courtesy." A stern, red-brown eye is rolled towards the shamefully-cuddling dog, and Many-Fights makes a noise that, suspiciously, sounds like a grumble. Bertram chuckles once more, and turns his gaze back to Cherny with a grin.

"I am no King, Cherny, no more than you are," he says. "And, yes, they are very scared. I may have a horn, Sir, but I am human, and sometimes I crave the towns. I have come close, a few times, but it takes only small reminders to bring me back to my forest." Yes. Thrown stones, and curses, and fright; willow-reeds and horse-lashes, ropes and chains. He is wary of them all, and with good reason. "I live, as best I can out here, in uncivilized places. I hunt, and I fish, and I and the bears get our roots and berries, and I am content. Speaking of." The man had many pouches, and he reaches out a long arm, a basket dragged from the shrubs at his back - they are berries of all sorts, rasp and blue and black. There is a hare, too, draped over the basket's side, and this he offers to Many-Fights, even as he gives Cherny a mock-stern look.

"I shall need these for the winter-time, Sir Cherny, but I daresay a fist such as yours - or two - could not put much of a damper in my stores."

As for the rabbit? Many-Fights snorts, and turns his nose up at it. He is a Dog, and he has his pride. MANY-FIGHTS LIKES CHERNY-BEAST FOOD-PROPER-FOOD. Rabbits were for chasing, not for eating, and what was one to do with all that fur and hide? Proper food was wet and red and set in neat little piles.

[Cherny]

Courtesy, the man says, and Cherny nods solemnly as if to say he'll do his very best, even while his fingers scratch absently under the hound's throat.

For the first time the boy is doubtful, some small scepticism creeping into thin features at Bertram's answer. How could the man not be a king? His voice, his manner, his wisdom, the air of dignified power that surrounds him. The boy seems about to voice these protests when another idea occurs, and his lips instead form a silent oooh of realisation. Clearly he is a king in exile, who must keep his royal lineage hidden until the time is right - a lost prince, perhaps cursed! That would explain a lot. He gives Bertram what he imagines to be a knowing look to show that he is aware of this necessary subterfuge. The Red Man can protest all he likes, but the boy understands. It's alright, he can be trusted to keep such a precious secret safe behind grinning teeth.

Then there is an offer of berries, and Cherny's eyes couldn't be wider if Bertram had brought forth a casket of shining jewels. Offered as a gift, yes, but then he says they're for his winter stores and so the boy hesitates. To take big handfuls would deny Ser Bertram his hard work, and he knows the winters to be cold and bitter; to refuse might cause offence, spurning the man's kind gesture. So again, a compromise, and he accepts a small number, maybe a dozen or so picked from the basket in his free hand; enough for him to enjoy their sweetness, not so many that the Red Man might want for them.

"Y-you're bigger th-than I am, ser, you n-need them more." Even a crop as good as this surely couldn't last Bertram the whole winter. So, better not to be greedy in case the man finds himself wanting later on. Happy with the rectitude of this decision, the boy pops a blackberry into his mouth to show willing and the burst of sweetness immediately has him considering whether perhaps accepting just a few more might be alright. Many-Fights' disdain for the hare prompts a somewhat apologetic look, and a strengthened resolve to address the matter of courtesy at the earliest opportunity.

[catch]

A questioning look for the boy, a canting of that antlered head, as Bertram could not even begin to grasp what the boy really thought of him. Oh, a King, and yet what could have prompted that sort of Knowing look? Ah, but the boy is busy with his berries, and Bertram just shakes his head.

"It is a thing you must learn, Many-Fights," the Red Man says, but with a twinkle in his eye; he, too, plucks a few berries, and pops them into his mouth, offering Cherny a wink. "No worries, Cherny lad. He is a dog, after all." Many-Fights kept his face turned pointedly away, involved in watching a fat squirrel as it prepared for the winter. The Red Man gives Cherny another look, and before the boy could possibly resist, he pushes another handful into his chest, careful to avoid getting stains on the boy's clothing.

"Hah. I could always ask for more from the bears," he says with a laugh. he means it as a joke, yet how would Cherny take it? The basket is hefted, as if he means toleave, and favors them both with a frank, appraising look. And then, he was satisfied. More than satisfied.

"You're lucky, Sir Dog. You'll have a good winter of it." Cherny, too, but he was a boy, and that was his birthright, though he may be driven like a slave at the Mill. Well, perhaps not that dire. There is a sense that, while he is perfectly willing to work for his survival, the work of the townsfolk was something he was not suited for. That he was far too lazy for. "Don't you worry about the coins, Cherny-lad. I'll get them to you. And if you ever need me, for anything, just set Many-Fights to find me."

[Cherny]

Alright, yes, he will accept those berries if Bertram presses them upon him, that's more than fair; the man knows how many he can spare, after all. "He's a good dog, s-ser. I'm glad t-to know him. And you." Leaning lightly against Many-Fights to emphasise his words. He's more than happy to look after the hound, to see that he has a dry den to sleep in and good meat to eat to keep him fit and strong. "M-manners or no." He grins with berry-dyed teeth, popping a few more into his mouth so that he might more easily carry the rest. A matter of practicality, you understand.

He smiles at the talk of bears, but not as at a joke; he can quite believe this King of the Woods might demand a tithe from the beasts, and that the beasts would offer it up willingly. Certainly the boy would.

"Th-thank you again, s-ser." A little bow, being careful not to spill any berries. "And if, if y-you need me." The Red Man knows where to find him, no doubt - or where to send word.

"I'll s-see you again?" Hopeful, yes; buoyed by Ser Bertram's presence, by his kindness and quiet dignity.

[catch]

One could laugh at Cherny's offer. What could a boy, stormcrow-black, scrawny, little, offer a man such as Bertram? But Bertram was kind. Such derisive cruelty was anathema to him; he did not even consider it. Instead, he bows that noble head, a hand placed to his chest. He bows to Cherny, with gravity and respect, as if he were an equal. And, if Cherny thought him a Prince, then that mean the boy was Princely in return.

"I shall call on you, Sir Cherny, if ever I need help. You and Many-Fights both." Many-Fights wagged his stubby tail, all the while trying to keep his grim, noble posture, there at Cherny's side. "And you shall see me, of course! I have not had a friend in a long time." He is a Man, certainly, but there is the youthful cast of his face. He may not be much older than a boy, and there is a wistful tone in his honey-deep voice.

"You have a good night, Sir Cherny," he will offer, and if that is that, he will go, and melt into the trees, where he truly belongs. If Cherny had any ideas of illusion, well. Bertram made quite a bit of noise, and the wordless tune of a happy song drifted back on the wind. At his side, Many-Fights would sigh, as if he has held his breath all this time.

RED-MAN BIG-MAN, he will say, as if to explain, and nudge roughly at Cherny's berry-stained hand. GOOD-MAN, WAKING MANY-FIGHTS UP, STUFF CHERNY-BEAST FULL OF SWEETIE-FOODS. MANY-FIGHTS GOOD D0G?