The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Never let it be said that Cherny the miller's boy isn't aware of his own weaknesses. Not here in Myrken, when they're thrown in his face on a regular basis. He isn't especially brave, and that at least is probably in his favour as it makes him cautious. Small for his age, a scrawny figure in an oversized coat, no good at all in a fight. Ignorant, uneducated in pretty much anything aside from how to haul sacks of meal from one place to another.

But he is determined.

Knowledge is precious. This he knows from how closely the miller guards his books. The one time he'd been able to steal a look he found its value sealed behind strings of undecipherable characters; the miller kept his library locked away after that, unwilling to share. But his reaction made it clear that there was something in those tomes to covet. Maybe something in all books.

He'd heard one of the local farmers bragging to a neighbour about his daughter's cleverness, how he's sending her to the new school in town to learn her letters. So she can read things in books, and maybe even write books of her own! To make something of herself. He'd listened carefully after that, enough that he knew where to look, and so at the end of a day's toil in the mill he's made the walk to town and found what he believes to be the correct building. Nervous, unsure as to whether he'd understood it correctly, whether he's welcome here.

What if it's just for the town children? What if it's just for the children of the wealthy? He's got a few carefully-hoarded coins in his pockets, but that might not be enough. What if he gets rebuffed and chased out into the street?

He won't know unless he asks, so - after one last effort at smoothing his hair and brushing mill-dust from his clothes - he knocks at the door and prepares to introduce himself.

Hello. He's heard there's a school here, and he would very much like to learn his letters, please.

Cherny is welcome here, indeed. His arrival is greeted with all the enthusiasm Rhaena Olwak has to offer - and that is a fair bit, these days.

Lessons are held for a few hours in the morning or a few in the evening, whatever time the children can spare from the chores and tasks they all have. Sparing that time earns them the reward of knowledge, of course, but also the more immediate reward of a small meal at the end of a session. It's a lure that works, clearly, for there are more than a few children in the room already. With Cherny's arrival, these students are quickly broken into small groups, an older student assigned to work with the younger on reading or writing or arithmetic, so that Rhaena can take the newcomer aside for a few questions to establish his level.

It is, indeed, very quiet. Let the children learn their letters. There is nothing to indicate that they would not be allowed to continue. Oh, a bit of a scratching, quickly silence. Mice in the building. Nothing was amiss, until the window was looked at, and in that window was a monstrosity, a wet, gaping hole, a pink-and-black soggy mass that clung to the door, fogging it with wretched breath.

It was the mouth of Many-Fights, who found the window to be rather uncooperative with his snout, and so he compromised, opening his mouth to press up bertter against the glass, his tongue and nose smushed against the pane, fleshy lips billowing and sucking inwards with each heavy breath. He not there, precisely, for Cherny-Beast; his small, muddy eyes are focused upon the learning-groups, children being taught important things. Human things.

Things that Many-Fights wished to learn.

That enthusiasm is slightly overwhelming, coming from so fine a lady - who is, he understands, in some way connected with Ser Glenn Burnie, the Governor - but he does his best to be well-mannered, answering questions to the best of his ability.

The boy's education is quickly revealed as being basic in the extreme. He can count, yes, up to a point, and given access to his fingers can manage some rudimentary sums. Beyond that... no. When the miller calls for this many empty sacks he can manage it; he understands weights, to an extent, by reference to the graded markings stamped into the mill's scales. He's politely-spoken, but letters are an absolute unknown to him.

What he does possess is an excellent ability to learn, to pay attention and follow example; he speaks little but listens intently, dark eyes keen and observant, and quickly grasps the principle behind written letters, that each shape represents a certain sound. That numbers have their own letters, rather than having to count out fingers or notches or grains of wheat, is a revelation to him, but one which he seizes upon vigorously.

It's in the midst of learning of the connection between shapes formed on the page and those made with ones voice that he notices the horror at the window; and while the other students who notice quickly fill the air with squeals and laughter, he is struck silent and still for the moment.

In the moment after he asks quietly if he might briefly be excused, and even before an answer comes he is hurrying for the door with the air of one desperate to avert some terrible catastrophe.