It had been a long, cold slog up and through the mountains. Dull weather leads to a dull mood, and Brulk wasn't one for arguing with the nature of things. The Company had taken a rest amongst the southern most Lossoth camp, a mixture of natives and Dwarves from further afield. The lot of 'em had the same kind o' stink, by Brulk's reckoning. Mammoth piss and sweat.
His knife slipped through the hand-sized fish with ease, flopping it open in two halves. He'd caught a half dozen, none of 'em better than average in size. He set them down in a pile of fresh snow, a couple feet from his campfire, and set to work carving the outer bark from the sticks he'd collected. Straight enough, and thin enough, to make half decent skewers.
The menial tasks had proven good for him. A man of his temperament was good kept busy, after all. The only issue was a familiar face popping up in his thoughts alittle to often. He couldn't help himself. He'd not seen her for getting on a fortnight now, ever since they're little wrestling match in the centre of Bree-land. The same night she'd slipped away with some fancy fellow from Gondor.
Brulk sighed, feeling his blood boil ever so slightly. It wasn't a bad thing, considering the weather, but what was he going to do? Trek back from Forochel to Bree-land and pummel the lads face into the wall's of their little picnic spot? No. No, he'd just have to keep calm.
He placed the fresh sticks between each fish, straight through the centre, and crudely sew up the two halves with the cord from his rod. He settled 'em down by the fire, each a couple inches a part and a couple inches further from the flames.
Now the hard part, waiting. Brulk brushed his hand under his eye patch, feeling the grissly lump of skin against his finger tips. He winced, and shook his head. This other fellow.. Roljoam or whatever the bastards name.. Handsome, young and with two eyes, two ears too.
He reached out his leather palm, pushing the skewers alittle closer to the flame. He looked to his side, alittle up the hill. Grey-hair sat there, speaking with his second still. "Round here, friends are made by doing the black word." Grey hair had said earlier. Brulk scoffed, and shook his head. Now holding a skewer in his fingertips over the flames, edging it closer and closer. He'd fought people all his life, and had a reputation for doing the black business. He used to be something, not something good but something all the same, and now he was sitting alone at a fire. The rest of his crew, folk's he barely knew, keeping their distance for the most part. If the man's words were correct, then Brulk knew he'd be fighting off these seeking his friendship by the months end.
