Treasured Farewells
They passed the better part of a day before he regained consciousness.
The Hatchling came-to ill and unable to move, his blood sluggish-cold and head spinning sickly at even the slightest movement. Roff had swaddled his wounds as best he could with bandages, and by some herculean feat of strength dragged both the knight and wounded crossbowman into the cellar and barricaded it, setting shards of splintered wood inside the door to impale any who might burst in with the idea of surprising them unawares. Roff hissed and sweated as he worked at dressing their wounds with fumbling fingers, the only noise save for the whimpering of the injured men and occasional alarming creak from the floorboards as the corpses above lifelessly leaked blood and waste. After a while the congealed foulness began to drip through the heavy planks, tapping onto the cold stones below.
He slipped in and out of fevered half-waking dreams of colours, shapes and senseless noises; every sensation magnified, but in a distant way, muted by the overriding dizziness that consumed even pain. He was aware of Roff over him, changing his bandages and dripping soothing water drop by precious drop over the Hatchling's head, murmuring words that slipped from the young dragon's understanding even as he heard them.
He wasn't sure how long they were there; it was impossible to make more than a vague guess at just how much time passed. The wounded man died sometime during the night, he was sure, the man's breathing slowing and then stopping altogether with a final pained rattle and the corpse stiffening where it slumped against the wall. The only light in that dank, squalid little cellar reflected from the hard edge of Roff's sword, barely enough for even the Hatchling's night-sighted eyes to make out the nearest wall. The stench of death and waste built until he was sure that any remaining Ashkar would be able to smell them even hidden as they were, though after seeing the way the berserkers had come at them from all sides it was some small reassurance to have impervious stone at your back. The cold, clammy caress of weary despair came forth to claim him there, and he sunk into it, fading from care and consciousness into dark and forbidding dreams.
He awoke in stages, aware at first of gnawing hunger, with the feeling that a whole day had passed. Hissing indignantly at the coldness of his muscles making them sluggish and unresponsive he tried to gain his bearings but was overcome with a wave of nausea. No sooner had the noise passed his teeth then Thrymja was there, and he wondered if he was still dreaming until her flat tongue lashed out and coated his face with drool.
"Git offa 'im! Ye'll make it worse ye stupid mutt!"
"Cynwise?" He murmured, forcing his muscles to work. Thrymja was pulled away and replaced with the glare of sudden light that hurt like all hells and slammed his eyes shut, but he felt the warm touch of a reassuring hand on his back.
"Easy there, you've taken a nasty knock. Still don't know yet if it's cracked your skull."
"What happened?" He murmured groggily, but lay still as she probed around his head. He felt her fingers graze dried scabs and snapped scales.
"Any dizziness?" She muttered, applying a light pressure and he hissed, more urgently this time, at the sudden flare of pain. "Look at the light, if you can."
"It hurts!"
"Good!" She said, pulling his eyes open and examining them. "You've had a concussion but I think your brains are still intact, though there's no telling with a dragon. You'll not be doing anything for a good few weeks except healing." She grumbled, slumping in relief. "And to answer your question, you got into a fight with a berserk and lost. You don't remember?"
"Yes... but I'm not sure if I want to." He groaned, trying to shut out the awful memories.
"I don't blame ye. I saw the smoke on my way back... don't think I've ever run so fast. I feared you'd both been diced like those other poor sods, then Roff near cut me in half storming out of that cellar. We were about to bury what was left of the bodies when that burned one got back up and gave us a real run for it. Damn close show."
"It w-wasn't dead?" He said horrified, recalling to memory the Ashkar's skin bubbling as it melted away in the flames, its body filled with so many crossbow bolts it looked like a hedgehog.
"No, and Roff should've known better than to leave it and think the job done. Fire or steel hardly touch a berserker; they'll keep fighting until someone gets their head... or the heart. We managed to put it down, but it was a close run thing. I don't care to repeat that anytime soon. "
She ran her tests on him, poking and cajoling him to his feet. The dizziness was thick in his head and slowed his thoughts to treacle, until he could do little in the face of her persistent prodding but mindlessly obey.
He had a large gash along his scalp, and he winced as her fingers probed it. "No good." She muttered, and before he could respond she was leaning over him, fixing her lips around the rent in his scales and drawing upon it. It hurt abominably, and he squalled in a reedy, weak voice. When she pulled away her mouth was dripping with his blood.
"Why did you do that?" He whined, shying away from her.
"If I didn't bleed it that cut bids fair to going septic." She said, grabbing him by the neck and dragging him back. "Better to have it done rather than getting a red heat so close to yer brains! Quit that wailing- dragon blood doesn't taste so good I'd fill my belly on it."
When finally she was satisfied with his other injuries, he was ill to his stomach, without appetite even for the sweetly spiced sausage she has brought back from the town- likely filched from an unattended market stall. Unable to move, she cradled him in her arms and carried him out of the cellar, Thrymja prancing around her heels the whole time. The Inn was even more of a mess than he remembered it; large dark stains across the floor and walls, jagged chunks missing from all the sills where the berserker's fearsome swords had cleaved the solid oak as though it were balsa. Roff stood at one such defiled edifice in grim repose, with weapons bared and eyes sharp, staring hard into the pre-dawn woods. He had a series of fresh cuts across his stomach and his thick leather belt hung in ruins with bandages crudely packed into his shirt. He offered them a wan grin as they emerged from the cellar.
"Still alive, eh leatherwings? Least some of us are." He tipped his head towards a slumped figure sitting before the chipped crate of the fire. The Knight. Through his woozy vision the Hatchling could not make out anything about the man's state, though to judge by the crusted stains across his padded jacket he was in a bad way.
"Dead?" Cynwise asked, her tone suggesting she hardly cared either way.
"Naw, but feverish. I dosed him up with poppy juice. Couple 'o cracked bones but nothing life threatening. What about our little friend here?"
"Concussion, scratches, and a couple of wrenched joints. I hope you didn't use all the laudanum."
As it turned out he hadn't, and the Hatchling was forced to drink down the bitter concoction. He twisted his tail around the Huntress' wrist whilst she and Roff discussed their next course of action, allowing the heady mixture to take effect and carry off most of the terrible pain, though the sick feeling redoubled until he was retching again. It was decided that they couldn't risk another night at the ruined inn; their position was far too exposed and vulnerable, even with its proximity to the town. No one voiced the thought of spending another night in the charnel-house basement. Better to take their chances on the run.
The cart had remained mercifully untouched by the marauding Ashkar, though all that remained of the horses were the chewed-off thong of reigns where they'd been tied to a fencepost and a tunnel of snapped branches where the maddened creatures had made their escape. The Hatchling and Knight were unceremoniously stuffed into the back whilst Roff ducked into the trees and dragged out one traumatised creature still in its tack. After punching it into submission he knocked its iron shoes off with an axe and left Cynwise tying its traces to the whiffletree whilst he stripped the dead of their equipment and Thrymja to darted in and out of shrubs further ahead to sweep for ambushes. Much to their chagrin the open air did little to dismiss the stink of fighting they carried with them, so that when the gear was loaded and they mounted the cart its intensity remained.
"Ponging of blood like this we'll have to ware for vampires. There's more than just Ashkar lurking these lands." Muttered Roff between pants.
"Vampires? What are they?" The Hatchling said, cocking his head.
"Unnatural sparkling things that roam the woods, whining and drawing gullible young maidens to their doom." Roff grunted.
"Naw, you're thinking of wychfires." Cynwise put in, tightening her grip on the reigns. "C'mon, we're in enough shit already without borrowing imaginary troubles. Double pace!"
Without its shoes the horse moved quieter, though it was inclined to snort and nicker and shivered like an aspen whenever the wolf stopped them to report. The Hatchling and knight eyed each other warily; the open hatred and contempt in the Knight's expression spoke volumes about his opinion, even without his occasional dark muttering about 'witchcraft' and 'sorcery'. More than once on the near silent final leg the Hatchling was afraid for his own safety. Roff had confiscated the man's weapons and armour and left him to huddle in his bloody gambeson amongst the flea-hopping furs, but injured indignancy and sorrow at the loss of his soldiers radiated from the man with the heat of a furnace. Both Roff and Cynwise were want to cast a suspicious eye whenever their attention wasn't on the road or the treeline, clearly uncomfortable in his company.
He needn't have worried. Throughout the long, miserable and sleepless day the man ate mechanically, speaking only in short toneless sentences when pressed and at all other times sat staring blankly down the road from which they had just come. He gave his name as Sir Gaiden of Westgard only after Roff threatened to club him over the head and dump him in a ditch.
Cynwise shuffled across into the back of the cart, displacing a napping Thrymja and hauling the incensed wolf bodily into the front to sit with Roff. She settled down next to the Knight, taking his bound hands without resistance. She flashed him an ice cold smile. Her stone dagger appeared on her lap, and she twirled it in a businesslike manner so the tip pointed at the knight. He glared at it as though it were offensive to his sight.
"Traders..." Sir Gaiden said with disgust, addressing them in the Bálheim tongue. "I remember you now... weeks ago in the pass. I remember thinking that you'd have to be desperate or insane to make for the lowlands with Ashkar on the prowl. Now I see it was something far more insidious, witch. Did you bring this disaster down on us all?"
"Ordinarily," She said, disdaining her native tongue for the Common one. "I couldn't care less f'r a Westgard toff. Dead or alive; all part and parcel of the business, and were it up to me I'd much rather have you not making a mess of an already completely clusterfucked job with your shee-val-rick antics. But since you were at least some help in getting our pasty arses away from the dogmen, you might just get out here with your body intact." He looked up at that, flinching as she cut his bonds with a snake-fast motion. "Buuuuut, and I cannot stress this point enough, you make any trouble and I'll shiv ye."
"And how" He said undaunted, suspicion and contempt oozing from every word "Can I trust the word of a Bálheim hag?" He sniffed, staring at the Hatchling. "No less one who consorts with demons."
"At this point you really have n' choice." She said, and as quick as it came the dagger disappeared with a flick of her hand. "Think what you will, but the fact remains that we saved yer miserable hide, when we might have left ye to be food for the dog-men. You're honour-bound to give your parole to us, until we deem to release ye."
"And what, pray tell, is to stop me from having the next guards we pass behead you on the spot?" He said, his eyes narrowing, though something in his tone said that the words were in spite.
"Him." She said, nodding at the Hatchling with a dangerous glint in her eye. He started, looking at her quizzically, barely catching the twitch of her head and staying silent. "Westgard is going t' be knee deep in shit and Ashkar for the foreseeable future and the las' thing you want is to find yourselves swatting away dragons an'all. I don't imagine they'll take too kindly if you murder one of their little-ones, especially not when they can call up the wilds against ye."
She chuckled as he blanched, gesturing at Thrymja who looked around with a startled expression. "Just look at that wolf there. Wild as they come! Called 'im right out of the trees when the Ashkar fell upon us, and ee's only a young'un. Just imagine what a fully grown beast, with centuries, nay, millennia of wisdom and guile could do. I wouldn't wager a wooden farthing for his lordship's chances... All those poor bairns in towns so nearly empty of guards, what with them all called off to fight your war..."
"Alright! I get the picture!" Sir Gaiden snapped, not quite managing to disguise his horror at the prospect behind a mask of affected anger. He coughed and slumped, shivering and sweating.
"Good." She said with a cherubic smile, pulling her cap low and arranging herself so that she looked like any one of the other innumerable refugees; bedraggled, tired and muddy, though on reflection perhaps it was not entirely a disguise. Thrymja appeared over the sill of the cart, professing loudly and at great length to the increasingly terrified looking Knight that she wasn't a vicious beast, heedless that all he could glean of her pleading was a lot of snarling and growls.
The Hatchling slithered under the fur pile, digging through the jumbled arrangement until he was as close to the driver's bench as he could get without clawing through woodwork.
"Do you think it's really wise to antagonise him?" He murmured, confident that only Roff would hear. He had mixed feelings regarding the knight; he felt sorry that the man had lost his men, but couldn't excuse him for his actions afterwards. There was no escaping the fact that he and his men had bought them the salvation of their lives at the cost of their own.
"He's a Westgarder, an' even under a bright sun I couldn't give a flying one if Cyn wants to wind up them lordlings to apoplexy. At least we can be sure he won't give us trouble; his honour, and all that. If he breaks his parole he's no more than a common man to his peers." He grunted with a dismissive shrug, making the wood creak as he shifted. "But I reckon she's doing him a favour, in the by. When you take a command the men under it become your family, your first priority in everything. Losing just one is tough enough, but to lose the lot... that's a shame no man would want to bear."
"But how does her goading help him?"
"Shaddap I'm gettin' to that! There's two ways of dealing with it; you get sad and depressed and mope about it, like he has, or you get angry. Angry is better. Hardens your resolve. Don't want to leave a man with crap like that hanging over his head or chances are he'll top himself, so you give him something else to focus on. Even if that something is wringing your neck."
"That... doesn't sound good." He said, suddenly worried.
"Better than the alternative." Roff said sadly. "He's a good bloke... for a Su'lander. Just the kind of guy I'd have wanted back when I was still in the business, so long as someone could find enough oxen to extract that pole from his arse. Would hate to see a man like that lose his spirit so young. Especially when Westgard is going to need all the fighting men it can get."
***
Roff needn't have worried.
The man voiced his objections at every opportunity; which was frequent in his fever-addled haze. The Hatchling could do little but try to shut out his incessant, deranged ramblings about dragons and demons and all manner of quixotic mumblings that sounded suspiciously like religious rhetoric. Further doses of laudanum failed to quiet him, and the matter was finally decided when Cynwise cracked him over the head with an axe haft. He was much quieter after that.
"Bloody Westgarders and their superstitions." Cynwise muttered, checking the Hatchling's bandages. "They cling to them like limpets to a rock."
The cart rumbled onwards through the thick, soup-like mist. Soon, the still smouldering remains of a wagon materialised ahead of them- run off the road and its wheels gone. A pair of charred corpses lay nearby, tossed without ritual into a ditch where their lipless mouths grinned a disquieting pearly white, as though sharing some secret joke at the Hatchling's expense. A swift tug and twinge on his bandages dragged his attention back; he hadn't even realised that he had been staring.
"Of course, maybe they're not entirely unjustified." She said grimly, pulling his head low with the pretence of inspecting his injury. He didn't try to resist.
The Hatchling measured the distance they covered in the rattling of the cart; as they grew ever closer to the city the roads grew more rutted and well trod. When finally the ruts gave way to solid, hewn slabs of stone he knew they had to be close. Anticipation closed icy fingers around his heart, mixed emotions coursing through his blood as the ultimate destination drew near.
Before long the city loomed out of the fog; its walls materialising with such suddenness that he at first thought they had reached some misplaced cliff, until he saw the cracks and spotted moss and lichen that struggled from between the mortared stones. Rushing air wailed and boomed beyond, as if some great titan struck a slow rhythm upon his drum, and the taste of dry salt hung heavy in the air. The edifice seemed nigh impregnable- as unmovable as mountains, their battlements shrouded by the fog so that it seemed they stretched on upwards into infinity... or perhaps it was simply that he was very small. Before the gate watch fires shed their ruddy glow into the heavy air, illuminating little except the dire-faced men who stood clustered around them for warmth. Arrows dotted the ground, and at the wall's base wooden spikes swirled in the mists like the teeth of some great monster, yet as they approached he saw the gate was intact; battered, but whole. The Ashkar had not been able to breach their sanctum.
He peered from the back of the cart as the road looped around on itself, carrying them through a maze of ditches that crept like a serpent towards the men who stood at the shrouded portal, offering no resistance as Cynwise pushed his head gently back into the stacks of hides.
"Swarthall," She said quietly by way of explanation. "It's on the Westgard side of the border between here and Bálheim; one of the few ports in this part of the world that can handle the largest ships. We'll get you passage south from here."
One of the men broke away from the throng as their rickety cart approached; even downwind the Hatchling could smell the pungent stink of potent spirits on his clothes. A short exchange followed that he could not understand; the language was not that of Bálheim, but the intent and firm intonations translated clearly enough. The man gestured at her cargo with his spear, teetering drunkenly. Cynwise scowled, and the man gestured, his tone switching like a striking snake, becoming wheedling; a greasy grin spreading across his face to reveal blackened stumps of teeth. Cynwise replied with a snarl, and then slipped her hand into her jerkin, pulling it aside. The guards around the fire hooted and jeered, but waved the cart through without further harassment.
"Bastards." She muttered, re-settling her clothing. "Wanted to turn us over, an 'inspection'. Pah! I know a shady one when I see it. I'd no coin to bribe them with."
"Horse shit!" Roff spat, shooting them a furious glance. "You should've let me handle 'em."
"And have blood up the walls before we're even in the gates? My pride can take a blow this once." She said with a forced chuckle.
The first impression the Hatchling got of the city once inside its walls was one of stench; the clustered reek of sewage, offal and unwashed bodies assailed his nose like a physical assault. In the end curiosity took him and he burrowed through the hides until he could catch sight of the outside world; the buildings within the walls were low and closely packed, rivulets of what he could only conceive as foulness ran over the unevenly cobbled road. Soot-stained and latticed windows glowed warmly and the sound of voices was all around- the cacophony was nearly that of the old waystation that had been Roff's haunt, but even to his unskilled ear the noise lacked any of the merriment and heartiness of that he had previously been exposed to. They passed few in the streets; children in bedraggled clothes and women who hid their faces behind dun-coloured shawls, but few men he noticed. Those they saw walked with knives or daggers at their hip. More than a few lay huddled in filthy corners, bundled in rags and missing limbs. The tension was there for all to see; caught up in this storm, the inhabitants of Swarthall had done the only thing they could and buckled down to wait it out.
They rattled through the precariously narrow streets, pulling inside a well rutted alley between a pair of warehouses and rolling to a stop. Cynwise hopped out, ducking between the sweating beasts to hammer on a large barred gate. She rattled off a quick burst of words as it opened an inch or two, and then swung wide. Taking the horses by their tracings she led them into the musty interior.
The inside of the warehouse was surprisingly warm; a small iron heater burned in a far corner, popping and sizzling as it ate its way through impure coal. Stacks and stacks of bundles lay lining the walls; goods, he guessed, judging by the unreadable markings near each of them. A wizened, tiny old man busied himself fussing over the cart as it intruded upon what was clearly his inner sanctum, wearing glasses that looked as though they'd been fashioned from the bottom of ale bottles.
"You're late!" He squeaked at Cynwise, barely taller than her shoulders. "The traders have been and gone now, a week past! The ports will be closing up for winter soon!"
"There must be some still around." She said, spreading her hands pleadingly. "It'll take some of them that long just to drag their crews out of the whore houses..."
"What took you so long?" He continued heedless of her, "Now I've got a stack of hides that I can't do anything with until next year, by which time they'll be nicely rotten! You have no ide- is that a wolf?" He said, peering blearily at Thrymja.
Cynwise responded by grabbing the little creature by the shoulders and spinning him to face the cart, shoving him towards it. He made as though he was about to protest until he caught sight of the destruction; blood-spattered, axe scored and with most if its tracings wrecked, the cart was a mess. Sir Gaiden hung limply in the back amongst the pile of scavenged weapons and armour, looking like some perverse mockery of a child's doll in his padded doublet. One wheel was loose on its axel and the entire ensemble was well stained with mud and other encrusted filth. Roff stood nearby, bedraggled, soaked in fine dew and armed to the teeth with Thrymja sitting at his side bearing a fierce expression. The Hatchling suspected she disliked being anywhere near the city.
"Oh." The old man said very quietly, adjusting his glasses.
"Forgive me for not keeping perfect time when I've been dodging fiends in the wilds for o'er a month." Cynwise said dryly.
"I- Point taken." He said, backing up a bit and rubbing his hands uncomfortably. He coughed, glanced back at the shambling cart and took another few steps back for good measure. "We haven't had it easy here either, sieges and the like. Truth be told I'm amazed that anyone showed up for market at all."
"Look, there has to be someone left in the city." Roff interjected with a coarse growl. "What about Selfridge? He's as stout a man as any in this back-handed town."
"Dead." The old man said, shaking his head and ignoring Roff's pained expression. "And he was no stout man; he was a smuggler and a rascal. Took an arrow in the throat two weeks back. His first mate took the ship and didn't even wait for the burial before sailing. Everyone who could left as soon as they'd done business. The only ones left now are... well..."
"Vultures." Cynwise said cheerfully, clapping him on the back. "Just my kind of people. I don't suppose you're amenable to looking the other way?"
"I... well... I..." He began, and fell silent and bit his knuckles when Thrymja growled low, a sound that could freeze blood in the veins of even the most hearty stag. Effect achieved, Roff subtly sidestepped and lifted his weight off her tail.
"I'll offer you five, if that's any consolation." Cynwise said with a mischievous glint in her eye.
"Ten." He squeaked, still gnawing at his hand.
"It'll be five and that's final. I need to make repairs, pay off the taxes and buy stocks for the return trip..."
"Oh alright!" He said, tentatively accepting her outstretched hand. His shoulders slumped. "I'd have settled for three; you've no idea how hard it is to turn a profit when those monstrosities are clawing at the gates. A man can't make a living by honest means anymore..."
"That's my man!" Cynwise said with a genuine smile. "I'll go an' arrange it, might have to bring a few people in. If anyone asks, you didn't see us."
The old man retreated to his smoky heater, muttering unhappily as Cynwise and Roff started unloading the assortments of pelts and weapons, dragging Sir Gaiden out of the back and dumping him on the cold stone floor. The Hatchling started when he was uncovered, but Cynwise was wearing a wide grin and rapped her fingers against his scales.
"Easy there, we've a stroke of good luck at least." She said happily, lifting him out and depositing him next to the Knight. "Don't worry about him. Old Erwen's vision is so bad he'll probably take you for a cat if you don't let him get a good look at ye."
"Stroke of luck..." Roff parroted sarcastically, setting about dismantling the generous pile of looted weapons. "Selfridge was my man in this town; it was his ship I was planning to put the overgrown lizard aboard. Now we're dished for it."
The Hatchling sat patiently, digesting this news as they finished unloading, stacking the pelts and assorted valuables in their respective piles. The weapons and equipment they had accumulated over their journey were set apart separately; save for her sword. He saw her move to un-knot the mouldy scabbard from her belt, then hesitate and finally resettle it against her hip. The Hatchling had not failed to notice the shift in her demure whenever she wore it; he had quietly inquired to Roff during the journey and come to learn that metals were rare in Bálheim, and the skill to work them even more so. Owning a sword such as that spoke of wealth and skill. Fitting, he thought. Cynwise was certainly no young woman and yet she held her own in the wilds year after year and had even bested Ashkar without aid.
When the task was done she skipped out into the streets once again, pulling the door closed behind her with a creaking crash. Ignoring the indignant words of the wizened old man, the Hatchling settled himself near the stockpile and stretching out next to Thrymja to take advantage of the mammal's warmth. Roff chuckled and tossed them cut strips of jerky and biscuit, chortling to himself over the haul laid out before them. The Hatchling couldn't begin to guess the dynamics of trade, but judging by the former mercenary's demeanour it was likely to be a very substantial sum.
As the day wore on, Sir Gaiden began to stir from his uncomfortable heap on the cold stone floor. Muttering to himself with increasing volume, he finally found the strength to push himself onto his back; his face was streaked with sweat and worry.
"It awakens!" Roff said, chipping away at the hard travel rations with his dagger. "We thought it would be best to let you have a little sleep. You were getting awfully argumentative towards our four-legged friends there."
If the Knight had any recollection of how exactly he had arrived into his 'little sleep' then he was too disciplined to show it. He scowled with injured indignancy, shifting uncomfortably beneath the curious stares of Dragon and Wolf, suffering Roff to check his injuries and accepting a little mead. That seemed to quiet his temper a little. Indeed, the man was looking somewhat improved; his voice was raspy with fevered yelling and tones remained clipped and angry, but he was no longer threatening death upon all and sundry. The Hatchling watched his eyes graze over the looted equipment, his brow furrowing deeper when he saw his own chain shirt and helm in the pile.
"I'm to understand then that you will honour your end of the agreement?" He said sarcastically, after failing to stare down Roff. The Hatchling was forced to admire his persistence, if nothing else; even weak, cold and stripped of his equipment the Knight spoke down to Roff like someone cajoling a cur.
"If you be honouring your parole, then yes." Roff replied between mouthfuls. "I imagine you'll be out of our hair by the week's end, Westgarder."
"And my vestments?" He said with a sneer. "I believe they were to be returned to me?"
Roff said nothing, simply leaning back with a small grin.
Cynwise returned several hours later, looking bedraggled and beat-up. She slumped down to Roff's side without a word, tilting her head back and letting out an aggravated sigh.
"Something wrong?" The Hatchling asked, sliding his head under her fingers and nudging until she began to stroke his ear-fins. She smiled and shook her head wearily.
"No, not in the sense you're probably used to." She said. "At least no one died anyways. I'm afraid old Erwen is right; not enough honest buyers left in the city to shift it all. And less honest means... well, let's just say that's a risky proposition in a city with so few guards. I have to be careful who I go poking around."
She stretched cat-like, cracking her knuckles. "On a happier note, I have a potential replacement for Roff's contact. Not the usual sort, but he has a ship..."
"Which you hope to embark me, along with some of your goods..." The Hatchling said, following her trail of thought.
"Mhmm. It'll be easier to work it that way. Shifting many littler loads is usually much easier than one big one when you want to dodge the trade-master's tithes. But the same lack of guards which could cause problems with less scrupulous kinds may yet prove a blessing; they're certainly less than vigilant when they have more work to do." She chortled.
The Hatchling swallowed, dipping his muzzle in acceptance. As hard as it was to stomach he had known this day would come... and in some strange way looked forward to it. Certainly he relished the thought of getting away from the cold, if even for a little while.
The storms returned with a vengeance that night; rocking the rickety roof of the warehouse as though a host of demons hammered upon the thin tiles. The Hatchling had taken some time to relax before they had all decided upon bed, and the others had elected to wash away the stains and tribulations of their travels. The tub that Roff had hauled in for the purpose- really half of a large barrel- still lay where they had abandoned it, tucked between two large stacks of crates for privacy's sake. It was refreshing to get away from the wretched stink of caked blood and sour, unwashed bodies, though he doubted he could ever put the experiences of their mad, desperate flight behind him.
He was sleepless this night. But then, he hadn't hoped for sleep, not with the memory of the terror and ache of his injuries still so fresh. It wasn't until they had finally found a chance to relax that he had realised how wound-tight they had all been- and how close to death they had come. The young dragon shivered to think of it, but could not put it out of his mind no matter how he tried. His looming departure too weighted heavily upon his spirit and a great sense of finality was felt about her decision on the matter; he slept close to Cynwise, listening to the thin whistle of her breath, as he had done when he was still newly hatched and scarcely as long as her arm. The distant hail of the rain was suffused itself by a tapping noise; a leak somewhere in the cavernous ceiling above, and shadows danced all around the strange and unwelcoming piles with the blinding flash of distant lightning.
A new sound joined the cacophony raging above; a shuffling, grunting sound. The Hatchling smiled, and thought that he had finally succumbed to the weariness he so keenly felt and was lucidly dreaming. Lightning flashed again, and from the shadows dark figures materialised in the shapes of Men, Dragons and Ashkar, all swirling about and battling one another to the pace of the storm's deadly roar. The creaking crates of the warehouse whispered secrets to one another in their wooden, groaning language, holding conversations with the skittering scratch the rats that scurried amongst them, pilfering what they could. The taste of blood and fine cloth suffused the dragon's senses, and then Sir Gaiden's face slipped through the shadows above him- contorted in an inhuman wrath as he raised an axe high.
The Hatchling remained motionless, staring out into the drama illuminated by the lightning; the Knight's bindings hanging free, but the man himself unmoving, seeming to reconsider.
"Damn you." He said after a long moment, light flashing from the hard edge of the axe as he retreated back into the darkness. "My honour won't allow it..."
The dancing figures returned again soon after; thrusting and leaping like circus performers from one flash of lightning to the next, and throughout it all the Hatchling lay quite still, wondering what other quixotic marvels his mind would conjure.
Being nailed into a crate wasn't fun, but it was one way of getting around the vigilance of the city watch. Cynwise's words had been prophetic; being so reduced in numbers the guard were in little mood to conduct extensive searches, even if the presence of a trader in such a bedraggled port was cause for comment. The men satisfied themselves with ruffling through a pile of hides they had brought along to sweeten the illusion and shook the nailed arrangement of timber that contained the somewhat bemused young dragon before simply waving the cart through. Cynwise tapped on the wood conspiratorially as she urged the tired beast onwards through the checkpoint, its hooves thudding into the sodden ground and casting up splashes of foulness. And it was there, past the obscuring mud-spattered mess of the city, through a narrow slat in the cobbled-together planks, that the young Dragon got his first view of the sea.
The endless iron grey mass of roiling, wind-swept waves made his breath seize in his throat, as though the air in his lungs had suddenly become ice. So used to timeless mountains and snow-drenched peaks, the vision of such an enormous, restless plain was almost obscene to his eyes. And yet... it was enticing also. His forked tongue flicked at the air, tasting spray and the stink of drying greenstuff; old, decaying wood and everywhere the tang of salt.
His crate was manhandled unceremoniously out of the cart, and deposited upon the docks in the shadow of a deep-hulled vessel that bobbed and creaked upon the turbulent water like a restless horse in its stall. Cynwise's voice was heard conversing in the Westgard language that she had used to address the gate guards; the other indistinct figure speaking in light, fluting tones that made her own sound coarse and stuttering by comparison, until it seemed that the alien voice wasn't all that dissimilar from birdsong. The Hatchling cocked his head as he marvelled at it, but the discourse lasted too brief for him to venture any guesses. After the short exchange she and Roff each took a side of the crate in hand, and hauled it along a gangplank. Light became darkness as the bulky container was moved below, unfamiliar scents wafting through dazzling flashes of light and darkness until suddenly everything stopped.
"So, this is the item you mentioned." A new voice spoke, carrying the same almost musical quality as the one upon the dock and speaking in the common language with a curious accent. "I hope you know that larger items such as this carry a hefty fee. They're much harder to hide; we have to put them overboard with some ballast before making port."
"If'n that's your plan I'll take my business elsewhere." Cynwise said from somewhere in the shadowy room, her rough Common heavily accented in its turn. "The 'cargo' is live and doesn't take too readily to drowning. But you will be pleased to know that isn't quite as large as you might have feared... not yet anyways."
There was a brief pause as the other seemed to consider, and the sound of movement. The Hatchling recalled enough from the time he had spent in the cabin to know the sound of clawed feet and Cynwise's nervous shuffle. Sensing her unease, he made ready to break out of the wooden confines at need.
"So what is it then?" The other said, apparently pacing. "Roc eggs? Some kind of Spawn from the north? Kayodin larvae, gods forbid- you did say you wanted it dropped off in Bolsing."
"A dragon." Roff replied with his characteristic flat tone, to which the newcomer simply laughed.
"I didn't invite you here to have my time wasted." It said. "Either be straight with me, or get off my ship before I have you tied to the bowsprit."
The screech of thick nails worked out of wood sounded as a crowbar thudded its way between the lid and the Hatchling's casket. Hissing, he huddled into the straw-lined bottom until the seam of light leaking beneath the lid widened, and eventually engulfed his eyes as the offending planks were pried loose.
"Well I'll be damned..."
Cynwise and Roff peered smiling over the lip of the crate- but joining them was a new and unfamiliar visage of reptilian features. The Hatchling thought at first that he was staring at a reflection of himself, until he discerned the darker shade of scale and the long crest running back from its brow-longer than his, and less jagged. The Hatchling was painfully conscious of the sight he must look; bruised and festooned with bandages, and still so very small.
"Rahlen meet dragon, as yet unnamed. Dragon, this is Rahlen, captain of the Sandrunner trade ship Crestrider." Said Cynwise as she tore away the lid, leaving him sitting amidst his pile of straw for all to see. More of the strange creatures stood clustered in the doorway of the small room- standing slightly smaller than either of the two humans, and lankier also. All were bundled in heavy furs so that only their long, muzzled faces, sinewy tails and clawed hands were visible- all coated with scales of a deep red. Barrels, other crates and thick sacks coated the walls and were stacked to the very ceiling. All was dark, save for a lantern hanging above the door.
"I understand that you trade mostly in the Roé Straits?" Cynwise continued unabashed, stroking the Hatchling's neck. Rahlen shook his muzzle as if to clear his eyes, a broad, forked tongue coming out to lick his lips nervously as he turned to address her.
"Indeed- it's a four month round-trip, barring delays and bad weather. We stop in at Ironhold to take on provisions and do some more trade, crossing the cape about five weeks before we make home port. We coast Cimeria before then, and that is where we would put him off; nothing but grass and rock for hundreds of leagues." Rahlen murmured, unable to take his eyes off the Hatchling, who returned the rather rude stare with one of his own. "Is... is it dangerous?"
"Only if'n you feed him vegetables, in which case I pity the lad you have cleaning the decks." Cynwise fired back dryly. She ruffled her fingers through his immature wings. "Speak up." She encouraged. "Show 'im you have a voice."
"That only happened once!" He protested weakly, bashful beneath the heat of so many interested gazes. It was hard to make out emotions upon the unfamiliar features, but he thought he could discern intrigue, and here and there a little fear. One of the Lizard-men standing next to Rahlen was tugging urgently at the captain's sleeve, singing out something completely incomprehensible.
"My Bo' sun makes an excellent point." Rahlen said, reaching out as if to pat the Hatchling's head, only to stop a bit short and hesitate. "I don't know much of dragons, save what the legends and more imaginative tavern-louts speak. But all recall their fire; we can't be taking him aboard if he is a risk to the ship."
"We've come 'ere through snow, mountains and Ashkar t' reach this place." Cynwise murmured, hauling the little dragon bodily out of the crate where he hung from her grip limply as if to demonstrate his placidity. "Through all 'o this I have yet to see him breathe a lick of flame. Call me a realist but I think the legends are a bit wrong on that point. Nae, I just see a young'un of the world. Guileless, an' mild as milk 'less'n you give him cause to anger. Innocent in the scheme of things, like rascals such as we once was."
Rahlen didn't seem particularly moved by this argument; he settled instead for a closer examination of the Hatchling whilst they dickered and cajoled; tracing his claw-tipped fingers over his softer belly scales, as if the dragon were a stock beast to be prodded and poked to judge his quality. The Hatchling forced his lashing tail to still, examining the Sandrunner in turn; it was hard to deny some similarity between them, in complexion if not conformity. It was not all so however; Rahlen's species were warm to the touch, and they could not have been basking as the young dragon liked to do when weather was warm. His eyes too were different; having a round pupil, rather than the dragon's cat-like slitted own.
"This is a risk." He whistled, apparently as much to himself and his fellows as to their human audience. The creature's gaze was intense, but not unfriendly as he met the Hatchling's eye. "If it is found with us my crew and I will be broken upon the wheel, or worse."
"As opposed to being drawn and quartered for smuggling." Cynwise shot back. "A human they'd hang, but the Rafen'sord they'll make 'n example of. Ironhold is the one ye need ha'e a care of, and they dun't much like the way your kin undercut their trade; If so you took a risk even comin' 'ere."
"This is true." He said, finally breaking the eye contact- much to the Hatchling's relief. Rahlen folded his arms and faced the two, a bare foot scuffing the planking of the floor as he seemed to ruminate. He paused a moment as one of his crew tittered something, sounding much like a flute, and then the Captain seemed at once animated again. "But this is an unknown quantity." He murmured. "The risk goes up, the price goes up. We will take him as you instruct, if you still wish it, but our service does not come cheap; four thousand, up front."
***
"Four thousand sovereigns!" Roff exclaimed in a hissing whisper. Rahlen had lent them his personal cabin whilst they spoke amongst themselves, so that they might do so in private. It was just as well, the Hatchling thought; even now he could hear curious whispering from outside the thick oaken door as more of the strange lizard-things tried to catch a glimpse of him. The two humans had cast dark glances at the door, and resorted to their native language, of which the Hatchling was now perfectly fluent.
"For the full five thousand I could comfortably outfit a company of men at arms, or build a ship of my own!" Roff continued unabated in his tirade, but even he had no real heart in it, and was not truly apoplectic as the Hatchling had known him when making attempts to persuade Cynwise to drown him. A strange fate that so much could change in so short a time, the Hatchling mused.
"But you'd never provision it, or find a crew to handle her." Cynwise said consolingly. "It isn't all bad; the Sandrunners are fabled seafarers, and that Rahlen is a canny one and sure to keep him safe. I don't suppose you noticed that his first mate was absent?"
"Like as not down in the city taking stock of our wares, once he knew we were coming." Roff muttered darkly; the asked sum was close to the total they were likely to gain from having sold on all their cargo, and the loot from the Ashkar too. "Perhaps Erwen was complicit? No, blind old bugger wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a skinned and a scaled man. They'd have but to contrive some excuse to get a look at our gear."
"Canny enough to cut us near the bone, but leave enough meat that we won't ditch him on principal." Cynwise added, following her own line of thought. "And he can afford to be a scalper- he must be aware that we're not likely to find another with the war on. Typical Sandrunner; useful enough that you won't stick him, but sly so that you can't win doing business with them either."
"We're not likely to have another." Roff agreed sullenly, casually rifling through Rahlen's drawers. "Nor are we likely to get a better deal out of the bugger. Four thousand leaves us a clean split of the loot- I wouldn't think to take a percentage of your furs. Call it four hundred to me and six to you, at a guess."
"Naturally." Cynwise muttered in agreement with the rough estimate, scratching her chin. "A comfortable sum, but so much for my plans to set up as a rancher in the plains! I was rather looking forwards to seeing the back of that old cabin."
The Hatchling could not help but feel guilty at this, and made no complaint when they packed him back into his crate for a return journey to the warehouse to deliberate. Rahlen had waved a hand dismissively and gave a time limit of two days to make good on the deal. 'It'll take me that long to get my crew out of the taverns and brothels.' He explained. 'They've none of our folk, but we've been long enough at sea to make any woman attractive to sore eyes, and it's a poor Rafen'sord that can't charm a whore enough to make the appearances meaningless.'
A chat with a rather excited Thrymja confirmed what they had suspected; a scaled creature, colour indistinguishable to her vision, had been in and had a good look at their goods almost the minute they left and no amount of growling on her part would dissuade it. From the rafters apparently; for it seemed that Sandrunners were also gifted with a great deal of acrobatic ability as well as silver tongues.
"Hah!" Cynwise exclaimed when the Hatchling took her aside to a cold and dusty corner of the warehouse to vent his injured conscience. "Don't fear for me; six hundred is a princely sum. I should be happy for half as much."
"But the captain asks so much more!" The young dragon whined, miserable. Though Cynwise's attempts to impart some knowledge of how trade worked had failed in its entirety, true to his breed the Hatchling had a keen sense of monetary value and numbers. "Sending me away will rob you of your hoard!"
"He does ask a lot," Cynwise gently affirmed with a nod. "But for comparison, a farmer could not expect to make six hundred in five years of hard labour. The furs I trade are valuable in themselves, but the armour and weapons are much more so. Metals are rare in this part of the world, and with a war on even Ashkar blades will be well sought after- they cut them just as well as us.
"And," She added with a smile upon her lips. "If not for you I wouldn't have even that; right now I would be dead in a ditch, or hauling my cart away to make ends meet in the plains. After the horses are stabled and shod, and my own provisions taken care of I would barely have a few coins to rub together until the next season. I'll do well out of this; not enough to build myself a homestead, but I won't have to test my aching joints setting snares at the top of a mountain for a few years."
This mollified the Hatchling somewhat, even if he was still inclined to flinch whenever the sum was repeated in his hearing. The weapons and armour scavenged from Sir Gaiden's band in particular were very valuable; worth as much as several beasts of burden apiece. For his part the Knight looked on with a sorrowful countenance as they were stripped of their livery, and then bundled up; he, Thrymja and the Hatchling were then re-located into an unobtrusive part of the warehouse as Cynwise went about the streets crying her wares, and waiting for potential buyers to arrive.
The procession of customers lasted well into the evening; coming first in a staggered trickle, and then steadily more queuing as news of her trade evidently spread throughout the town. When he peeked the Hatchling spied men clad in leather aprons leafing through her pelts and nodding to themselves, and others in clothes of finer cloth came to mingle amongst the tradesmen; like as not they would walk away with a substantial weight of fur- to sell onwards to more distant places, he guessed. He did not spy any other naval men amongst them, nor the red-scaled Sandrunners; earlier she had sent a portion of her goods to Captain Rahlen, both as parcel to the payment and a show of good faith.
Before long stranger men walked amongst the merchants and craftsmen- all of them armed, and most bearing armour or shields. Adventurers, the Hatchling realised with a start; it seemed years ago that they had uncovered the corpse upon the road, but even so ruined as it had been he recognised snatches of the manner in which they were outfitted; always fit for travelling, with their clothing spare and practical. A few women walked amongst them also he was surprised to see; lean and stony-faced they reminded him much of Cynwise, and she shared a few curt words when they came near.
"Ach, them." Thrymja said when the Hatchling informed her, scrambling up the piles of crates and barrels to see for herself. "Hear the howls about 'em sometimes. Men in the wilderness always looking for trouble with the two-legged wolf packs, hey. Strange things; everyone knows men belong in their dead-tree-caves."
The adventurers had little interest in the furs, but the equipment it seemed was quite a draw to them; a smith might spend a month making a piece to order, so it was rare to have a dozen or more items available at any one time. The Hatchling was given to understand that such things were very rarely put on sale; more often they were made only on demand, for a smith could not rely upon anyone having money enough to buy them.
"Sold myself shorter than a skilled man might," Cynwise said merrily, wiping sweat from her brow when finally the last of her wares were sold. It was dark, the storms had returned with fresh rain, but not a scrap was left. Those who had come late had been disappointed to be left with axes or daggers more suitable for Ashkar palms, but they had been bought anyways; the demand for weapons with the security of wayfarers being so tenuous was very high. "Still, I was not far off the expected mark. Rahlen will have his gold and you your passage south. I will have plenty to spare... and I shall heartily regret seeing you go."
For his part the Hatchling remained silent; he did not particularly want to go, but after they have risked so much he could hardly kick up a fuss. Every moment he spent with them kept their party in danger; even Thrymja- looking as fresh from the wilds as any howling wolf- could be explained away plausibly. But no believable story could be supplied for having a Dragon accompany her; not one that would save her from the hangman's noose.
"I'll miss you." She said quietly, stroking the thin webbing at the corner of his jaw. "Gods know it... I would have loved to see you fly for the first time."
"I will visit." He murmured disconsolately.
"I bloody hope so!" She said, with a laugh more forced than genuine. "The air gets awfully cold in that cabin of a winter. It would be nice to have a little extra fire around."
***
The air was cold on the docks too, the next day, when he was wheeled out towards the great creaking hulk of the Crestrider. The Hatchling sat still at the bottom of his crate, eyes closed and tongue flicking out to taste the scents they each bore- Roff's polish, Thrymja's wet dog-like scent; the faint smell of fur and resin that always seemed to surround Cynwise. Mechanically he fixed them into his memory, dreading that a day might come in his long life that he would forget their names and faces; for all his reassuring words, it would be scores of years yet before his wings would work. Beyond any human's normal span of years, to say nothing of the Wolf.
Trepidation sat like a hard lump of lead in the seat of his belly, filling him with the sensation of restlessness and seeping dread until it was all he could do not to burst the crate into flinders. Rahlen accompanied them also; he feared that liquor might have loosened the tongues of his crew, and walked with the small party as they made the very last leg of the journey; the guards knew well enough his illicit business, and also that he had the contacts to make their lives most unpleasant if he should be accosted.
The heavy tread of Roff's boots was ominous as they surmounted the gangplank, a faint wheezing of breath joining the lazy lap of the ocean against the ship's keel as they manhandled the crate aboard. Sandrunners called out in their fluting, whistling tongue, and many hands, scaled and skinned, brought the mess aboard. Rahlen knocked the lid off with little ado; they hadn't felt it necessary to secure against possible inspection.
"This'll be your new home for near three months." He said in an airy way, turning his body to look down the length of the deck. With Cynwise's encouraging hand upon his shoulders and Roff's bulk blocking any possible spies upon the docks, he risked a glance over; the ship herself was in fine trim- decks polished to a glassy shine and her railings sanded free of splinters. Two masts rose towards the heavens from her deck, festooned with a maze of ropes and cables that the Hatchling couldn't even begin to guess at. He had seen ships within the Dream, but none such as this; they had been simpler then, rowed by slaves or rigged with triangular sails fit mostly for coastal waters.
A jarring thud into the bottom of his crate distracted his attention away from the marvel of hominid ingenuity that was to carry him; amongst the straw laid a small pouch of patterned leather, bulging with coins.
"A gift from us." Roff said, his tones as usual gruff, though the deepening creases at the edge of his eye betrayed him. "I was always told as a bairn that dragons guarded treasure and collected it in great heaps to sleep upon. I don't know if you're one for that but... There's a start, at least." He made a dismissive gesture, turning as if to leave and then hesitating, abruptly turning back to drub the Hatchling's scalp with his knuckles. "Oh curse it!" He snapped. "I was ne'er a one for soppy farewells. Have a damned good life you little bastard, and terrorise some Westgarder villages for me."
The Hatchling was still stunned, stumbling for words with which to thank the man when his face was abruptly engulfed in the damp, flat expanse of Thrymja's tongue. The wolf herself didn't speak, nor did she whine piteously as he had feared she would, but mutely bumped her nose against his muzzle. He lashed the underside of her chin with his serpentine tongue, staring long into her piercingly blue eyes, before she too bowed away and went to join Roff in an intimate examination of the ship's railings.
The moment he had been dreading most of all arrived when Cynwise hunkered down; her calloused fingers stroking his bronzy scales for what he knew would be the last time.
"You are what is best of me." She murmured with uncharacteristic softness, a tender smile curling the corners of her thin lips. "Ever since you broke out of that egg I knew what I had to do. It was a fancy- a stupid one maybe, but one I don't regret."
"You will look after them, won't you?" He said, his voice nearly failing him. "Roff relies on you more than you do him, for all that he would deny it."
"I'll take good care of them." She assured him, her teeth flashing in a grin. "The cantankerous old bugger is easy enough to manage when you know how. I'll even look after the bloody wolf for you- though she spooks the horse and I've no idea how to feed her. You have my most solemn word, little one."
"I would ask one last thing from you." He said sadly, his head bowed respectfully as he made his final request. "Give me a name," he breathed. "So that you might know me, and judge me by my deeds, and not just as a memory."
Cynwise paused, her fingers tracing along his thin neck, running down his shoulder to the as yet immature wing and cupping it lightly. She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against his for the barest moment.
"You are Melanth." She said, her tone carrying deep gravity though she has spoken barely louder than a whisper. "In the tongue of Nordgard that once was it means 'explorer'; one who ventures to new lands. Never forget your home, little drake. And may you always find your way in the world; for you have shown me mine."
She stood; her figure tall and radiant, lines of worry and age that marked her face all but invisible in the sun's wan light as she stared out across the rolling swell of the dark ocean. She planted her hands upon her hips; calloused fingers unconsciously gripping the hilt of her sword and her eyes bright, challenging.
"I feel younger than I have for years." She murmured, as much to herself as he. "Perhaps there's life in my bones yet... I feel a longing for the trackless road I haven't known since I was a girl."
Her hand fell away as she reluctantly turned, Roff and Thrymja falling into step behind as she went to the gangplank. They each spared a longing glance back even as Rahlen barked his crew to order, bellowing commands that conveyed an authority incongruous with his sing-song accent. The ship exploded to life as Sandrunners pulled up ropes from the shore and leapt aloft into the rigging; it was all done remarkably quickly, The Hatchling, now Melanth, had to admit. With a wooden clatter the gangplank was raised and stowed away, and the sails swiftly fell open with a fabric rustle under the direction of the bo'sun. They flapped restlessly as the wind snatched at them- great squares of cloth with merry green stripes upon them.
"Secure that!" Rahlen cried as the ship lurched into motion. "You've all been too long ashore if you can't even handle a sail right. Get that thing into order!"
Capable seamen all, the Sandrunners quickly corrected their mistake and the ship it seemed took on a life of her own. The sensation of motion was one he had been used to from the cart, though it was nothing so similar; the ship moved much more fluidly, and rapidly. The shore swiftly fell away; buildings of the city shrinking with distance until only the great encircling wall he could make out clearly; he wasn't paying attention though. His eyes lingered only upon three figures standing upon the docks; two larger, one smaller, staring longingly after them until finally they became too small to see, and vanished amongst the city's clutter.
He sat in his crate disconsolately, away from the darting crew and noisily complaining gulls that escorted them on their voyage, hoping to snatch some tidbit or other. Already he hated the ship, and stared ruefully at Rahlen as he made a circuit of the deck, inspecting the work of his fellows. He caught the dragon's stare, and with his bare, clawed feet making tapping noises upon the great planks made his way over to the crate.
"A fine day." He said, not unkindly. "I would wish for a little more wind, but at least the storms have let up enough that we shan't capsize. A good start, if this voyage means to continue as it is begun."
"Indeed." Melanth said, breaking eye contact as soon as the Captain began to speak. He did not feel in the mood for conversation, least of all with the man he was coming to irrationally regard as responsible for his predicament.
"Cheer up; there's no sense in moping over what can't be helped. Here, your lady gave me this for you, and told me you were to have it only once we were set to sea."
Melanth reached up uncomprehendingly as Rahlen extracted something large, round and shiny from his warming furs. Cold metal clicked against his claws as he gingerly took it, leaning back so that he might examine it- and then his jaw fell open.
It was a bowl. His bowl; the one in which he had spent his first night.