Once inside, Immalaine sets her bow against the wall, dropping her bag gently next to it as she looks around, rubbing her arms to warm them. "Thank ye, sir." she said, looking over at the man, before examining the room before her. The room was small but clean, the main furniture being an old table off the center of the room, and another smaller table against the wall. In the opposite corner was a large fireplace, already lit, bringing warmth and light to the room.
He stumps in after, muttering to himself. "Clutter up m' cabin with more folks. Why not?" Louder he says to Immalaine, "You can hang yer bow on the pegs there, beyond, th' door, an' leave your knife with yer bag there." He points toward the hearth on the far wall. "Then go on an' get th' chill out o' yer bones." He pauses, still casually wary, watching her.
Picking up her bow up, she hung it where he'd pointed, before pausing. Wary about not having her dagger on her but deciding not to offend the man, she pulled it off and set it on top of her bag, before heading to the fire. She rubbed her hands together in front of the flames, grateful for the warmth. "If'n ye got any tea, I can make some up. I'm a right decent cook."
He follows, reassured by how she's put down both blade and bow, and shuts the cabin door. "Nah, you stay there an' get warm, lass. I ain't so far out in th' wilderness as to forget a host's duties. You just set there a spell, though if ye'd swing th' pot over th' fire I'd be obliged. I'll get us a stew going." He hangs up his own cloak and bow, then strides over to a table along the far wall and sets about pulling vegetables from strings overhead - onions, garlic, carrots hung in a bag - as well as some more items from his pack. "Oi, Cuthberd!" he calls toward a short back hallway. "Cuthberd! We got company. Get on out here."
Immalaine reaches over, setting the pot over the fire as he had asked, before looking for a chair to sit down in. "Lest I can do is get the vegetables cut up fer ye." she said, sitting down at an old table in the middle of the room, close to the fire as she could get.
Waving her back down he exclaims. "Day I need help whippin' up a stew in my own house is th' day I'm packin' it in to go live with those soft dandies in th' city, You look chilled to th' bone an' half dead t' boot, lass. Jus' sit there an' warm up ... an' once th' water's boilin' we'll get some tea into ya." He pulls an enormous knife out from under the table and starts to hack at the vegetables, making up for in energy what he lacks in precision. "Cuthberd!" he calls again.
"Yeah, alright," a querulous voice answers. "I heard th' first time. An' whaddya mean, 'company'? Since when d' you entertain anything but beasts?" Footsteps can be heard coming down the hall.
Immalaine sighed, "Me name's Immalaine. Most jus' call me Imma." she said, tired of being called a lass.
After calling down the hall, looks back to Immalaine, as he rolls his eyes in a 'here we go again' expression at her, then tilting his head toward the back room. All he says, though, is "Alright, lass... Immalaine it is. Me name is Ceolfred, call me Ceol."
Nodding absentmindedly, she turns her head in the direction of the footsteps, as she watches and waits.
The door to the back hall creaks open, and a rangy man steps through. He's got a crutch under one arm and winces at each step - well, each half-step, for his right leg has been severed just below the knee. His weathered face is creased with lines of pain, giving him a pinched, disapproving expression. Or, at least, emphasizing that expression. He pauses in some surprise when he sees Immalaine warming herself near the fire. His eyes widen, and then he cackles a broken laugh. "Ha, Ceol. Finally gave in, did ya? An 'bout time, too. This a doxy from down wit' those rangers ye were tradin' with?" He leers at Immalaine and licks thin lips. "I trust ye mean t' share wit'...."
Ceolfred cuts him off with a thump of the knife handle on the table."Cuthberd! Mind yer tongue! This here's a friend o' yer boy. Immalaine." He shoots an apologetic look toward Imma. "Come up here with some thought as t' be help out on the farm, if yer still fool enough to buy land out on those orc-infested fields."
Immalaine turns pale, biting her tongue as she clenches her fists in her lap. Taking a deep breath to clear the sudden panic she felt she looked up at the man. " 'Ello," she muttered, her voice calm despite her fear.
Cuthberd cocks his head, studying her with new interest. "Friend of Rastellion's, eh? An' where's that lazy son o' mine, then?" He looks around, and raises his voice in a complaining demand. "Rastellion! Git in here, boy! D'ye have my money, then? Tol' ye the last time not t' come back without't, din' I?" He takes a few more painful, lurching steps to a chair right up by the hearth in the corner, on the far side from Immalaine - and pulls a high foot-stool, clearly adapted for the purpose, on which he rests the stump of his leg. Then his eyes turn back to Immalane, studying her. "You Rastellion's girl then, lass?" he asks her. He shakes his head. "Don' look like much," he mutters, as if to himself, but loud enough to be heard. "Well?" he prompts, louder again.
Immalaine watches as Rastellion's father heaves himself into a chair, a frown on her face at the way he speaks of his son. "Rastellion didna come wit' me, sir," she said politely, "I ... came on me own. An' no," she finishes, shaking her head, "He ain't ... I mean I'm not ... " she stutters,and quickly closes her mouth. She looks over at the fire, her face momentarily crestfallen, before she composes herself again. "What I am, is a good farmer. Grew up on a farm, an' I know how t' grow crops an' cook 'em too."
"Farmer, eh?" exclaims Cuthberd. "What good's that afore I've got me farm? Should've had it by now, too.. would've had it if my son weren't a good fer nothin' cavortin down in that Breetown... Rastellion!" he yells again. Then he looks back at Immalaine. "So, got yer eye on m' boy then, do ye, lass?" He chuckles. "An what ya got t' offer besides cookin'? Any woman can cook. Grew up on a farm, ye say. D'ya stand t' inherit it? Land? Coin?"
Immalaine looks at his pa and shakes her head. "Me farm got burnt down by brigands, 3 years past now. Lost e'rything in th' attack. Includin'," she adds with a frown, "Me pa. But I ain't broke, if'n that's what ye mean. I make decent coin sellin' the foods I cook." She pauses a moment, before continuing, "An' I dun know what ye might think o' yer son, but he ain't some no good city boy, sittin' on his ass at t' tavern, chasin' wenches. He's been workin' hard t' get yer land deed, and t' get enough gold t' buy yer new place. I seen it fer meself, I have. He's th' smartest, hardest workin' most decent man an' mebbe ye should be proud o' him, cause ain't many like him."
The man's eyes narrow and he peers at her. "So that's yer game, is it?" he hisses. "Heard m' son stands t' come into some land an' - since you got nothin' - yer tryin' t' wheedle yer way in, eh? Come up here w' yer flattery an' tales, tryin' t'..."
A crash interrupts him as Ceolfred slams down his pot, filled now with chopped vegetables and meat. The larger man strides over and stands at the hearth, between the other two. He swings the pot out and dumps the food into it, then pushes it back over the fire. Then he turns, back to Immalane, and says in a low voice - but one that she can still just make out over the crack of the logs in the hearth - "Listen here, you bitter old wreck. You can talk t' me - and you do! - as ye like, and it ain't m' place t' tell you how t' speak t' yer son. But I'll be damned if I have you talkin' t' a guest like that under m' roof. I took ya in out o' love for th' memory o' my sister, but, I swear, you keep pushin' me and I'll send y' out t' sleep wit' th' orcs. Ye'll fit right in wit' 'em. Mebbe they'll even give ye back yer leg. Ye hear me?" A long pause, then Ceolfred turns and strides back to the other side of the room.
Cuthberd glances at Immalaine, then looks away, face contorting into a scowl. "Show him, I would," he mutters, "iffn I weren't a damn cripple." He pulls a flask from a deep shirt pocket and takes a long pull, then shifts his chair to stare into the fire, still scowling.
Immalaine bristles at the man's words, angry at the man's demeaning attitude towards his son. "Ye can call me what ye will, sir, but t' suggest I'm tellin' tales 'bout yer son is an insult to him -- an' t' yerself, fer I'm sure as ye raised him right. As fer me, I ain't got a care fer gold or materials. But if'n it means Rastellion is 'appy, then I'll tend land from sun up til sun down, fer nothin' more than a place t' sleep an' a meal." She stretches her legs out, before she turns back to him. "An' I'll face all the orcs in this whole damn land to boot."
Ceolfred steps back to the hearth, placing a large hand on Immalaine's shoulder. He meets her eyes and shakes his head, as if to say "don't bother," then hands her a mug of hot water, the loose tea already beginning to color it and the scent of dissolving honeycomb rising with the steam. "I believe ya la... Immalaine," he says, quiet, "an don't you let that sorry sack of bones get to ya. He weren't always like that. Not when we were lads." A deep sadness shines in Ceolfred's eyes for a moment.
On the far side of the hearth, Cuthberd makes a great show of ignoring the other two and takes another long swig from his flask, then massages his stump with a groan. "'Ere now," he says, not quite looking at Immalaine. "Where's that lazy boy o' mine lurking? Did'ya leave him outside, lass?"
Immalaine looked down at the mug of tea, then back up at Ceolfred, nodding in thanks as she takes a spoon and begins gently stirring the tea. "No sir," she says, "I sorta came out on me own. He ... he didna want me t' come, said it were too dangerous fer me to be out 'ere." Leaning down a bit, she blew on the mug, the steam of the hot liquid rising like mists at dawn. "I reckon he'll stay in Bree 'til he gets th' papers ..."
Immalaine's words are interrupted by a clatter of hooves outside the small cabin. She heard the sound of a whinny, and then of booted feet hurrying up the wooden steps. "Uncle!" comes Rastellion's breathless voice, preceding him into the cabin. "I need yer help! A friend of mine's gone an...." His tongue and feet both stumble to a stop as he catches sight of Immalaine, sitting by the hearth, Ceolfred's reassuring hand still on her shoulder. "... oh..." he manages... and then, as his eyes track toward the darker corner on the other side of the hearth, where his father hunches, ".... shit."
(Credits and love go to Rastellion, who provided the voice of the male characters in this story. *Blows kisses to Rastellion and grins widely*)
