Synry
Episode Twelve
It was near evening when the man rode up the main street of the village. His horse caused a little comment, being obviously war-trained, and the raven on his shoulder bespoke his mastery of magic. A firrim was strapped across his back, and a crossbow hung from a ring on the saddle. He was obviously a veteran of the fighting between the various Lords in the area, and seemed dangerous enough, despite his youth.
He rode briskly, sitting pike-straight in the saddle, and reined the horse to a halt in front of the local inn. He hopped lightly down, looped the reins over the hitching post, and walked in through the door. All conversation stopped as he entered, standing backlit in the gloom, an imposing figure with one end of the firrim jutting over his shoulder, and the raven spreading its wings on the other. He paced up to the bar as if he was marching to battle, and every eye followed him.
Halfway to the bar, he tripped on an uneven floorboard that he had missed in the dim light, and fell forward on his face.
The bird took wing as he went down, and perched up on a rafter. There followed a brief moment of silence, as the inn's patrons tried to decide how they should respond. Into that stunned silence, the stranger's voice rang out very clearly.
"Gaurak's stinking shit. Fucking splinter."
The laughter started slowly, as the patrons, one by one, struggled to stifle their amusement and failed. In moments, the whole common room was breathless with laughing, and the stranger hauled himself to his feet, pulling a long sliver of wood from the heel of his palm, and sucking on the wound. He had flushed a bright red, and his eyes darted around the room, finally settling on his own feet.
He completed his approach to the bar, and pulled out a few silver coins.
"Loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, 'f you please," he mumbled, not meeting the landlord's eye. The huge man behind the bar took his coin and brought his food, chuckling benevolently. The stranger quickly tucked the provisions into a bag, and turned to leave the bar.
"Here, boy. You're not heading out, are you? It's nearly dark. Come. I've got rooms to let, and they aren't that expensive."
"Thank 'ee, but I've far to go yet." Still not looking up from the floor, he marched out the door. From the rafters came a soft, "Bugger!" as the bird took wing and followed the young man out. A few words drifted back through the door as it swung shut: "Didn't think to buy me any meat, did you?"
Later that night, as the cold pressed in on Synry sitting by the fire, Bran ruffled his feathers in frigid misery.
Why couldn't we stay at the inn?
They was all laughing at me. Had to get out.
They were laughing because you fell and got a splinter. One of the oldest jokes in the world, you know. All you had to do was laugh with them, and it would have been fine.
Well, I didn't. So it weren't. So I left.
Bran flew down by the fire, and wiggled his way into Synry's cloak. He knew that he would get no better answer from his master; there was no better answer in Synry's head. Together, they huddled by the fire, crossbow ready, waiting for the dawn. The wolves howled in the distance, the wind blew fitfully, and the sense of isolation deepened, as they each took refuge within their own thoughts. Neither addressed the other for several hours.
It was the barmaid, wasn't it? You didn't like the idea of her laughing at you.
Hush, Bran.
Satisfied, Bran settled in to wait for the morning light.
