29 The Whistling Raven it is.

***Garv***

Garv rolled over lazily, the sharp morning air sent a shiver down his back. Magar was still snoozing, as per usual. He was never much of a morning person.

Garv could hear the birds calling, a few roosters were duking it out in the surrounding farmland. Competing for loudest rousing cock-a-doodle-doo between themselves.

A few of the horses huffed in the stable and had started munching away at their hay. Garv pulled the blanket over his head, he didn't want to get up yet. But he was dying to empty his bladder. He stubbornly refused to get up, hoping to catch another five minutes sleep.

The sound of bootsteps came from the other end of the stable.

It appeared it was time to get up after all.

"Morning!" Skye's cheerful voice filled the stable.

"Time to get up sleepy heads!" Cassandra piped up next to her.

"Hnuuuh." Magar grunted, unwilling to face the day.

Garv sat up, a small pain stabbed at his ribs, but he seemed to be healing well. He instinctively reached for his dented chest plate and battle axe. But then hesitated, he supposed he wouldn't need them today.

He wrapped his items up in a blanket and placed them in the corner.

"Morning," he mumbled, before exiting out of the stall he was in, "Oh!"

He got a look at Cassandra and was caught off guard for a second.

She had replaced her rags with some farming dungarees and a flannel shirt. She was completely fee of dirt and looked a hundred times better than yesterday.

She and Skye were dressed exactly alike. It was quite endearing.

"I tried to get her into a dress," Skye laughed, catching his gaze, "but she flat out refused."

"Who'd have a skirt when there are dungarees going free!" she said proudly slapping the straps off her shoulders, "Look at me Goldie, I'm a farmer now!"

"That you are Cassy!" Garv chuckled heartily.

"You can't just make names up for people Goldie!" Cassandra poked her tongue out at him.

Garv gasped in feigned shock at the rejection, "Says you!"

"Aww, I think it suits you." Skye said to her, patting her on the head.

"Hmmm, I guess if auntie Skye thinks it's ok, I don't mind." Cassy said with a smile.

It was refreshing to see her in a good mood.

Magar wandered out of the stall rubbing his head, presumably to see what the fuss was all about.

Cassy gasped, "Oh no, it's Moody Maggie!"

She playfully hid behind Skye's legs.

"Huh?" Magar grumbled, looking around half asleep, "who?"

"I think she's talking to you Boss," Garv said with a chortle, "Moody Maggie, I think it suits you!"

Magar shrugged, "Whatever, good morning I suppose."

Moody Maggie busied himself folding up the blanket he had used. Garv turned back to the pair.

"Where would you like us to start?"

"If you could grab a couple tools from the shed next door, and head out to the first gate in the field," Skye motioned over her shoulder, "it's coming off the hinge. If you could try and fix it for me that would be great."

She smiled and put her paw on Cassy's head, "Cassy is going to help me in the stables this morning, there is some leftover bread in the kitchen if you want to grab a bite before you get started. But I will do a proper breakfast in about an hour."

"That's ok, we'll get started right away." Magar said, grabbing Garv by the collar as he did so.

The two former snatchers made their way to the tool shed to collect anything of use. It was a small wooden construction without much elegance. Inside was an array of well used tools, saws, hoes shovels and brooms. A few that Garv didn't know the purpose of and a few hammers and hatchets.

Magar selected a hammer and a few spare nails. Garv picked up a hatchet.

They left the dusty old shed and headed back round to the front of the house. Garv grabbed a couple of long pieces of timber, from the pile of logs that they would be turning into firewood later.

"You never know when a bit of wood will come in handy. Might have to stick a new post in." He said at Magar's puzzled expression.

"Fair enough." Magar shrugged.

The pair mad their way to the field in question, it was a short walk up a dirt path. The gate was immediately identifiable, it was practically hanging off its hinges.

They arrived at the gate and studied it. Placing their tools and in Garv's case, two thin logs, down on the floor.

The wood that connected the hinge to the post had rotten through, the bracket of the hinge was being held on by a lone nail.

They both bent forward and studied the hinge in more detail.

"Hmm" said Magar.

"Hmm" replied Garv.

They looked at each other, speaking without words.

Neither of them knew what they were doing.

They stood in silence for a while, the wind blowing between them. The sounds of trotting horses on the main road emanated from behind them. But neither of them turned around to look.

Garv supposed they would have to rip out the rotten post and stick a new one in, then fix the gate to the fresh post.

He was just about to make his suggestion when he smelled something alarmingly familiar.

"Did you smell that!?" Garv said whipping round, sniffing the air.

"Smell what?" Magar replied, following suit, "What did you smell?"

"Not what, who." Garv said with a serious expression.

They both looked around frantically for a second, the wind was blowing up from the direction of the road.

Garv scanned the road thoroughly, but there was no-one in sight.

Was it just his imagination?

"I'm sorry, it must be my mind playing tricks." Garv said shaking his head.

He could have sworn he smelled that beast.

Magar gave him a funny look, but didn't comment further on the matter, "Anyway, I was thinking that we remove the old rotten post. Then throw in one of those logs you brought with you and fix the gate to it."

"Ah-"

"Something wrong, you have a different idea?"

"No, it's nothing, good plan Boss." Garv said, feeling a bit deflated.

Magar pat him on the back, "Ok then, you fashion a spike into one of those logs and I'll get to work removing the gate."

Garv smiled, back to his cheerful self, "No problem!"

***Boots***

Boots and his party were making good time out of Fenniton.

They had left along the north-eastern road and were following it past the lake.

Boots was impressed with the size of the lake, it was huge. You would have to be quite the athlete to swim across it.

The lake sat between them and the lone mountain, it was quite the view. He could just about make out the marshes across the lake, they sat just to the right of the mountain as he looked at it.

He hadn't really heard much about the marshes come to think of it.

"Simeon, what do you know about the marshes?" Boots asked, guiding Oatmeal closer to him.

Simeon looked briefly in the marshes direction as he trotted along next to Boots, "I know not to go there if that's what you mean?"

Boots gave him a curious expression, "What's over there?"

"Frogs." Maria said with a dark look on her face.

"Frogs?" Boots chuckled briefly, before looking around and seeing that nobody else seemed to be laughing.

What sort of frogs could evoke this kind of reaction, from warriors no less!

Boots's experience with frogs was that they were small, relatively harmless things that could only hurt you if you ate them. Not that you would want to eat one, they were quite slimy.

"M'lord," Simeon continued, "frogs are not to be messed with around here, they are dangerous. I am surprised you've never heard of them. That said, the only other thing you'll find in the marshes is smugglers and thieves."

Simeon shifted in his saddle, "Basically, there's nothing worth your time in the marshes, just dangerous animals and societies outcasts."

"Noted." Boots said with a nod, he was still intrigued by the marshes though.

What secrets could they hold?

How interesting.

He decided he would look up frogs as soon as he could. Something had to be different about them here. He did not, for one second, believe that people could be afraid of the tiny frogs he had encountered in the past.

They were approaching a bend in the road, where the river Lown emerged from Ranton lake. There was a small house nestled against the turn. It was a simple two-story construction with a stable attached.

There were a few villagers milling about beside the stable door and a couple more up by the field in the distance.

As they rounded the bend, they could see a small bridge that led north over the river and into Brockton which was now creeping into sight over the hills.

Smoke trails lazily snaked into the sky. Their destination was near.

The four horses trotted over the bridge. It was a wide wooden contraption that had seen much use over the years, the river Lown flowed smoothly underneath it, giving off the pleasant sound of running water. The bridge sat high enough over the river that a barge could pass comfortably underneath it.

There were a pair of men fishing a couple hundred metres away on the far bank.

The far bank had a gradual climb uphill for around fifty metres, obscuring the town temporarily from their view. There was the occasional pedestrian on the road, but you could hardly call it busy.

The whole scene seemed strangely bizarre to Boots. Just a few kilometres away to the south-west, Fenniton was in a state of crisis, yet here, life continued as normal.

As they made it to the top of the short hill Brocton came into view in all its splendour.

The whole town was built atop an even larger hill, with a wide flat top. The buildings at the summit were stone constructions with red-tiled roofs, much the same as the buildings of Fenniton, however the size of the town was quite the spectacle.

Once your eyes wandered past the multitude of stone and brick in the centre, the sheer number of wooden houses was also incredible, built all around the southwestern edge of the town. Row upon row of them stood, they extended far to the west in a disorganised arrangement with no care for organisation.

The road they were on led right to the centre of the town. It felt like they were already in town, looking to the left and right there were wooden houses all around them. The streets suddenly seemed a lot busier.

Boots immediately began to notice the variety of individuals. Gerald had mentioned that Brocton was a multicultural place, but Boots was amazed at the sheer variety of individuals present.

There were those with the look of rabbits, foxes, dogs and he could of sworn he saw a fellow that looked like a panda ducking into a house!

"Incredible." Boots muttered.

He would have to find out their racial names, so he didn't inadvertently insult someone. Maybe Oswald would be the chap to ask about it.

They trotted along towards the central district of the town at a leisurely pace. The hustle and bustle around them seemed to grow with each step.

The low wall that skirted round the central area was in sight now. It stood around three metres tall but was not wide enough to be manned. The entrance they were approaching was flanked by two town guards.

Boots called the party to a stop before they got too close.

"Simeon, I don't know about you, but I could do with some lunch before we get too involved here. I also wouldn't mind catching up on the local news." Boots steadied Oatmeal underneath him briefly, "Are there any establishments around here that could fulfil that purpose?"

Simeon smiled and nodded towards a building nearby, "The Whistling Raven is a good spot for gossip and grub."

"Well then, the Whistling Raven it is."