Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

"Greywood Fief" Byron echoed over his dry lips. Had a nice ring to it. Probably meant there was some absentee lord collecting taxes once a season, and providing little if any protection.

Funny business lords, taxes, and land. Something he had managed to avoid his entire life, save the very upfront payment for services delivered.

The township was arranged in a large, disorderly ring within the spiked log fence, there were huts with small yards and vegetable gardens, pens for pigs and goats near almost every home. Their composition ranged from clay to log, domed to peaked, hay-thatched, chimneyed and quaint.

No sizeable beasts for plowing or transit seemed to be present, judging by the stretched hides and dangling, shrivelled meat in a few of the yards, it appeared that Greywood was predominately fed by game and carefully planned micro-harvests. Which meant they'd have to dry their meat, and preserve seasons of fruits and vegetables. Pickling and curing! Byron cursed his useless coin with an irritated swat at his purse- these people would surely pay a high price for salt.

While he continued to mutter irrepeatable obsenities at his currency he wandered the ring looking for some banner, script or sign suggesting he was at the home of a tradesman or merchant. No such luck was forthcoming, so he ambled up to the largest, most august home near the center of town, and rapped smartly on the small wooden door.

"I've not stolen your eggs piss off old man!"

came the protest of a swarthy and visibly harassed young woman barelling through the door- she raised an accusatory finger and seemed ready to continue her incensed tirade until she realised that she was not speaking with someone familiar.

"Oh-"

Byron had doubled back hands raised into a pen post, the housewife's trembling finger still a hair from his nose.

Byron found himself at a loss for protest or interjection. He held his body tense, and bent backwards a bit over the post now digging uncomfortably into his spine.

"Begging your pardon! You must be an out-of-towner"

"Indeed" Byron weakly groaned over the sharp pain in his back.

The young woman held out her hand and pulled him off the pen, brushing and fussing over him as she continued to speak and before Byron was entirely sure what had happened and how- he was sitting next to a homely little fire, within a homely clay hut, with a flat plate, and a crust of bread and a spun mug of warm water in his hand.

"Fraid I've not got any tea, but my ma told me hot water was good for any and every morning- specially a brisk one such as this"

"In-" Byron paused and tried to recover the last couple of minutes, and how he had managed to be invited indoors and sat comfortably in a stranger's home. Hospitality may be a lost art in cities, and on campaign, but not to humble hardworking folk.

"-deed." he decided to drop his confusion and suspicion for the moment. Afterall, he had fresh bread and could feel his fingertips for the first time in quite a while.

"So what brings you to Greywood?"

"I'm..." He didn't quite know the polite way to phrase 'mercenary' or if his profession would revoke the hospitality so he held the words as long as he could "passing through."

"Oh, where you bound?" The young woman had pulled up a chair and poured herself a mug of steamy water.

"Not sure... I may as well come out and say it" He winced. "I'm a sellsword."

The young woman paused with the warm water hovering next to her lips. A look of quizzical awe and excitement lingered in her eyes before the room errupted with noise and jabber.

Byron held up his hands and backed the chair up to a wall as the young woman hammered him with ecstatic gibberish. He gathered from the complete lack of smacks, slaps and insults that she was asking him about his adventures.

"Slow down! Slow down! I can't-"

With a haughty gasp the girl stopped "I'm sorry, I just have never met someone so exciting!"

"Exciting?" Byron thought back to all the waiting, trenchdigging, standing, forming, ranking, marching, trenchdigging, waiting, standing, forming, trenchdigging and waiting in between battles.

Then the jabber resumed. A few of the words he picked up were "been" "how many" "battle" "hurt" "must have" "oh I wish" "dragons?" "knights" which could have been "nights"

"Women talk to fast." He said with an involuntary sneer. He held up his hands in half disarm, half pleading.

"If you'll just sit back down, take a deep breath, I'll tell you a story, a'right?"

With surprising speed and agility the young woman made it back to her chair- but bolted up again.

"No wait! Wait right here! I've got to tell Marybeth!" And with the same surprising speed and agility the young woman was out the door and no doubt summoning Marybeth in a moment.

Byron returned his attention to his mug of warm water, and his crusty fresh bread. In very few moments time he heard a murmor, a bit of a gaggle.

"This can't be good."

The door creaked open and Byron looked back to see a swarm of housewives, small dirt covered children, and a few househusbands bottlenecked, squirming, and craning their necks and bodies to get a closer look.

"He's a mercenary from another land! And he's about to tell us a story!"

Byron wasn't a gifted orator, nor an enthusiastic loreweaver, but he had shared ale and tale with many coworkers and comrades over the years. Now that a crowd had gathered, he knew he'd have to come up with a doozey.

With a deliberate sigh, and an involuntary spark in his eye, he leaned back in his chair and addressed the swarm

"You folks ever seen a razorhog?"