The snow was deep along the high paths Yorric patrolled. He ambled along in his snowshoes, hatchets at his hips, two larger axes, Warg Smite and Wolf Smite, at his back. At twenty, he had grown fully into his father’s shadow, even a bit beyond it. Tall, black haired and broad shouldered, craggy, wrapped in thick wool and furs from wolf and warg, he looked every inch his father's son, and certainly there could be no mistaking that he was a descendant of mighty Beorn!
He stilled as a feeling of unease took hold of him.
The wind had dropped, leaving the world muffled and still. Yorric scowled, breath fogging before him, eyes scanning the drifts and jagged rocks ahead. He had learned to trust that feeling in his gut, the one that prickled along his spine and made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck rise. Something was not right, there was danger close.
Something erupted from beneath a drift in a violent explosion of white, a hulking shape of matted fur and ice crusted hide! A snowbeast, larger than a bear, with the twisting horns of a ram, a boar’s tusked maw and fierce, ravenous eyes. The beast's roar shattered the stillness, and it was a terrible sound, like the roar of a bear, the cry of a boar, and stone grinding against stone, the noises all mingled together.
Yorric barely had time to brace.
The creature slammed into him, hurling him backward into a drift. Yorric rolled, came up snarling, shifting even as he moved, bones creaking, moving and changing, sinew doing the same as his bear form took hold. He met the beast head on, roaring.
Claws met claws. Teeth snapped.
The snowbeast was strong, stronger than any wolf, warg or wolf being Yorric had faced, stronger certainly than a goblin, its hide nearly as tough as stone, its movements brutal and relentless. It raked his side, pain flaring up sharp, and Yorric answered with a crushing blow that sent the snowbeast skidding across the ice.
It came again.
They fought in a whirl of snow and blood, carving trenches into the drifts. Yorric felt the snowbeast's tusks scrape his ribs, felt its weight crash against him, driving the breath from his lungs. He fought on instinct now, fury and training carrying him where thought could not.
Then the snowbeast lunged high, the beast's claws catching his throat. There was pressure, then agony as flesh and fur tore. Hot blood poured down his fur, onto the snow, steaming. Yorric reeled, choking out a roar of pain, and the beast surged forward, jaws snapping shut...Around his mouth.
There was a wet, tearing crunch.
Yorric’s roar died in his throat. He moved even as the pain eclipsed everything, and drove his maw into the snowbeast’s neck, biting down hard. He shook his head violently, feeling the creature weaken beneath him, and with a final, desperate heave, he tore the snowbeast's throat out.
The snowbeast collapsed, twitching, its blood soaking into the snow beneath it. Yorric staggered back, shifting clumsily into his human form as strength fled his limbs. He clapped a hand to his neck, fingers slick with blood, breath coming in ragged, gurgling gasps.
He tried to call for help, but nothing came out but a broken, wet rasp. Dizziness swept over him. The world tilted and went fuzzy at the edges. Yorric sank to his knees beside the dead beast, snow already crusting in his hair.
Footsteps crunched nearby, small ones. Voices followed, urgent, speaking quickly in a lilting, familiar way. Yorric tried to turn his head, but his strength was nearly gone. Shapes rushed into his narrowing vision: Short figures bundled in thick cloaks, fur lined hoods framing round, alarmed, familiar faces.
Holbytla.
Gentle hands pressed against his neck, holding something there to stem the flow of blood. Someone murmured soothing words, another poured something burning between his lips. Yorric choked, coughed, then swallowed. Darkness closed in, claiming him for a time.
Pain dragged Yorric back to the waking world.
Warmth pressed around him, too warm for the high paths. Smell told him more than sight ever could: Baked bread, tallow lamps, crushed pine needles, and the smell of mountain herbs.
Lyndelby.
His eyes cracked open. Stone walls arched overhead. Nooks held small lamps, their light honey colored and steady. He lay on bedding piled atop a wide table reinforced with beams, one he had helped carry into place not long ago, and figures moved at his side.
“Easy now!” Said old Bramblewick Underbough, one of the healers of the village, her voice gruff but kind. “You’re among friends, Yorric! Don’t try to rise.”
Yorric tried to answer her, but no words came. Panic surged, pain too as he clawed weakly at the blankets, breath hitching as his hand rose to his mouth. Reality hit, and his chest tightened with a soundless, broken cry.
Bramblewick’s hands were there at once, firm yet kind, holding him still. “Aye, we know. The beast took your tongue, and nearly took your life as well!”
Another familiar face leaned into view, Old Troutlo Underbough, Bramblewick's husband, white curls escaping his cap, eyes grave behind thick brows. “You're lucky we were within earshot! Snow would’ve covered you before nightfall and you'd of been lost."
Yorric swallowed hard, throat burning as Bramblewick adjusted the bandages at his throat with careful fingers. “You’re safe here, same as always. Lyndelby looks after its own, and you’ve looked after us enough times to be counted among our own!" She assured him.
Right she was, for Lyndelby lay in the area that he had been tasked to patrol and safeguard the last three years. Many a threat to the village he had stopped, and he was often there to help the Holbytla that dwelt there, for he liked them a great deal. Their expectations of him were easy to manage, whereas the expectations of his father...Well, those were growing ever heavier to shoulder.
Lyndelby was his haven, a reprieve from his father's constant schemes, his expectations, and the fact that Yorric could never seem to make him proud these days, never as strong or as fierce as his father wished him to be, no matter how hard he tried! No matter how he proved himself time and time again!
And what would his father say to this? His marred neck, the loss of his voice? The snowbeast was dead, yes, but Berengar would not see it as a victory! Oh no, Berengar would view it as a terrible failure, one Yorric would not have survived if not for the aid of weaker, lesser beings! Lesser in Berengar’s view, at least! That is what his father would say, among other things!!
Yorric pressed his hands against his face, fighting back tears.
Bramblewick made a low, sharp sound under her breath and swatted gently at Yorric’s hands, easing them away from his face before the strain could pull at his wounded throat.
“Now, none of that!” She said, not unkindly. “You’ll split your stitches, and then I'll be very cross!”
Yorric’s shoulders shook anyway. Silent sobs wracked him, breath hitching in ugly, strained gasps. He turned his face toward the stone wall, shame burning hotter than the pain. When had he last shed tears? At his mother's death, four years ago. Before that, he could not remember a time he had ever cried. His father had snarled at him to stop showing such weakness, that his mother would not want his tears. Yorric had been ashamed then, and he was ashamed now.
A chair scraped closer, and Troutlo sat beside him, taking one of Yorric’s hands in both of his own hands. “Listen to me, I know things seem bleak now, but you'll be all right. Heal up, write what needs saying. We'll give you pen and ink, books to write in!"
Bramblewick leaned closer, stroking his shoulder. “You stood your ground, fought well. You protected us! That beast would’ve come down on us! You kept it from ever reaching us.”
Yorric squeezed his eyes shut. His hand lifted again, shaky, pointing to a nearby bear carving, miming a roar then shaking his head angrily.
What was a bear without a roar? Weak! A laughable thing.
Troutlo caught his meaning well enough and shook his head at once. “Rubbish!” He scoffed. “Absolute rubbish! Roars aren’t the only thing worth having. Lack of one doesn't make you any less of a fearsome bear!"
Bramblewick nodded fiercely. “You’re still welcome at our table. You'll still patrol! Still scare off wolves just by looking at them! And if anyone back home thinks less of you, gives you grief about your lack of roar, well! We'll make you a fine smial here!'”
There was a low murmur of agreement from Troutlo, gentle as softly falling snow.
Bramblewick brushed a few strands of hair back from Yorric’s brow. “You’re not any less. I'd say you're more from what you lost, because of what you were protecting, what you survived!”
Yorric’s breath hitched again, and the weight in his chest eased, just a little, as their presence and words warmed his spirit like the fire burning in the hearth.
Inside Lyndelby, Yorric was all he needed to be.
Twenty years ago that day had been, yet Yorric could recall it all so clearly. Of home, Yorric missed Lyndelby most of all. To them, he was enough. There was nothing wrong with him. They did not ask more of him than what he could give. He missed them the most, Lyndelby and his mother, who had been killed by wargs when he was sixteen. When she had been killed, all his father's warmth had gone with her, all his joy! Berengar had grown severe, all bitterness and ambition. His mother had been fierce and bold, but kind too, and radiant, could soften the hardest of hearts. Nothing could soften Berengar’s heart now.
His mother would not have minded his tears. He could admit that to himself, now. His father had been wrong!
Yorrifc heaved a sigh, pushing away the thoughts of home for now, because he always ended up dwelling on his father, on Berengar’s expectations and ambitions. On Berengar’s harsh judgment of everything he did. Yorric was glad to be away! Yes, he had left home at his father's bidding, on this fool's errand after Honey-Mouth, and because of his own restlessness and wanderlust that had been steadily growing over the years...
Not to mention the vision that had come to him after fasting...
Thunder and honey! Wanderlust, restlessness, missions, visions and his father's ambitions be damned, He hadn't truly wanted to go...! Or at least he had not felt ready when he set out. Yet now, it was a relief to be away! He felt free and unburdened in a way he had yet to experience. Exploring new lands, not constantly being judged and ridiculed by his father. Such thoughts troubled him, as he felt he ought not be so glad to be so far from home, yet he felt as though a weight lifted from his shoulders in this new land, despite the mess he had made at the Knackered, but Bryony was helping him navigate that horrid mistake.
He was lucky to have her friendship.
Yorric sighed, he should have returned with her to the Shire, but he was too troubled, and wanted to be alone for a while. The talk at the Knackered after the statue had been unveiled, of beings twisted by their pursuit of power, such talk had made him think of his father.
He did not wish to think of his father.
Yorric wandered the village for a time before he left the safety of the stone walls surrounding the hamlet the Knackered Neekerbreeker was nestled away in, making his way down the cobble stone path that led to the Great East Road. He reached it and walked beyond the road, to the top of a hill, and below him the Midgewater Marsh stretched out, drenched in moonlight and fog. He could hear thousands of Neekerbreekers out there, calling out like crickets: Neek-breek, breek-neek, yet shriller and even more persistent than a cricket. He scowled at the sound, gripping the handle of his hatchet on instinct.
"Going to go hack them up too?" A voice asked drily to his right.
Yorric turned sharply to see Tivlyn sitting against a large oak tree, her jaw, neck and chest completely covered in drying blood, her arms too. The only things that didn't seem to be covered in carnage or dirt were the axe and hammer at her back and the old hatchet sticking out of her worn and patched pack.
When her brother had claimed she'd bit the neck out of a goblin, Yorric had thought the lad was jesting. Now...He wasn't so sure it had been a joke.
Yorric shook his head, taking a step towards her to see if she was injured, but paused when Tivlyn held up a hand.
"Not my blood. Well. Most of it isn't. I'm fine." She said, tone seeming a warning that she didn't want him to get any closer.
Yorric stilled, squinting at the marshes a moment. He pointed to them, then mimed about like a goblin, looking to Tivlyn questioningly.
"I don't know what the blazes you're trying to say." Tivlyn sighed flatly, leaning her head back against the oak.
Yorric rolled his eyes, taking up his slate and chalk, glad there was enough moonlight to see clearly to write: 'Goblins?' He showed her what he had written, curious what manner of blood she was drenched in.
Tivlyn squinted towards the slate, before she pointed away to some larger hills to the North-East. "Goblins there. I came back through the marshes, and am venturing back out there tomorrow, just...Need to rest now, get cleaned up."
'Why such a mess?' Yorric wrote, raising his brows at her.
"Reckon ye know the answer to that. Goblins are messy. And violent. They scratch and they bite, as well as stab and club. And sometimes an axe and hammer ain't enough. Sometimes, ye gotta bite and scratch back." Tivlyn replied with a shrug and a grunt as she stood up.
Yorric certainly could not argue with that, it made perfect sense to him, but it did strike him as a bit odd, coming from one that could not change form to have claws and maw.
"Were ye at the Knackered?" Tivlyn asked before he could consider such things further, nodding towards the hamlet away in the distance.
To her question, Yorric nodded.
"Did you cause any trouble?" Tivlyn inquired further, looking wary.
Yorric huffed a breath out of his nose and shook his head, cleaning his slate before he wrote: 'Truly sorry for Neekie. Will be more careful.' Then he cleaned the slate, and wrote further: 'Made wood carving of Neekie. It's at Knackered.'
Tivlyn eyed him and his slate a moment, before folding her arms and looking towards the sheltered hamlet once more. "That was...Decent of ye." The words sounded like they took some effort for her to say, and she didn't look pleased one bit.
She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck as she tried to clear the surly look off her face. "I should have warned ye about Neekie. That's on me, but ye should have taken a damn moment to assess the situation. Ye would have seen that Neekie wasn't a threat! Ye know the first time I met yer cousin, there was a huge bristlehide runnin' around the tavern, but Ben didn't want to go axin' her, he wanted to help get her out unharmed. Maybe take a page outta his book?"
Yorric snorted and rolled his eyes, as that was the last thing he wanted to do! Though Tivlyn was right when she said that he should have taken a moment to think and observe before springing to action.
"I don't know what yer problem is with each other, though I do know family don't always get along. Ye don't have to be all hugs and kind words at the Knackered, but if you go hurling a drink at him again, or anything like that, you and I are going to have problems beyond ye getting thrown out, understand?" Tivlyn warned sharply.
Yorric would have scoffed at such threats when he'd first met her, but after she had pulled him back and pushed him away towards the road with very little effort despite his vast size and strength, after he had thrown his mug at Benjenn the other day, and now seeing her as thus; blood soaked and starring him down like she might tear HIS neck out, Yorric felt very ill at ease, tucking his slate and chalk away, holding his hands up in a peace gesture, nodding to show that he understood.
"Good. I ain't very fond of ye at the moment, and I hope that changes, as I'd rather direct my ire to more wicked creatures, thank ye very much Goodnight." She nodded to him and walked past, staring him down as she did. He did not like it at all, not her barely contained ire, nor the fact that she seemed itching for a fight that Yorric was not sure he could win. Despite his unease, he did not look away, watching as she prowled away, looking over her shoulder as she did so, keeping her gaze upon him until she moved out of his line of sight.
Much like how a wolf kept its gaze on a threat when leaving an area. What little he knew of Bree-Landers thus far, distrust and watchfulness was not out of the ordinary, still, she struck him as somewhat of an oddity among her people. Her brother and her were certainly much taller than the folk he had seen in Bree, for one thing. He hoped that he would not upset her further, and that in time she would forgive what he had done, for he found that he did not much like being on her bad side, and getting back in her good graces would certainly cheer Bryony, not to mention make things easier to keep an eye on Honey-Mouth, who seemed to frequent the Knackered.
He would have to reel in his disdain for his cousin, he thought with a scowl. Endeavor to be slightly more friendly. No, not friendly! Civil. Bryony would be pleased, at least, and he wanted no more trouble from Tivlyn! Nor did he wish to anger that elven woman, Daewen, whom he was sure would help Tivlyn's brother, Warryn, throw him out a window if he caused trouble.
Huffing, irked at the complicated situation he had found himself in, but determined to navigate it as best he could, Yorric made his way back to the East Road and headed West, towards Bree and eventually, Stock.
