[Primrose Bolger]

Grimm woke to the smell of roasting chicken. Peeling open one thick eyelid, he stared blurrily out from the little cave of skins he’d thrown over himself in the night. His nose poked just beyond their ragged edge, sniffing mightily at the enticing scent.

Broga heard the familiar snuffling noise and turned his head toward his brother. ‘Just about done. All nice and crispy on the outside like we likes ‘em and juicy on the innards!’ He grinned sloppily as Grimm heaved himself up from his pallet and scratched his backside, his familiar morning ritual. ‘Look here! I even got the fire going myself!’ Broga turned back to his cooking and ripped off a leg and thigh, crunching happily through the skin, meat and bones. ‘Come on! They’re done now.’ he said waving the half gnawed hindquarter at his brother, a trail of chicken grease slithering down his chin as he held out a rod of spitted hens to Grimm.

The sleepy-eyed Troll mumbled something as he stumbled toward the brace of hens. Grasping the hot iron rod in his fingers, he danced about a bit, blowing mightily as he slid the hot birds from their skewer and onto a nearby log. Picking one up in his great grip, he tore a sizable chunk from it with his snaggly teeth. He chewed thoughtfully on it, grimacing every once in a while as he rubbed his neck with his free hand.

‘Whatsa matter?’ asked Broga, wiping his hands on his clothes as he reached for a water skin.

‘Them bags a gold,’ mumbled Grimm round a mouthful of chicken. ‘They’re a poor excuse for a pillow, they are. My neck’s all tied in knots.’

Broga ignored his brother’s complaint, knowing that if he commented on it, the particulars of the aches and pains might go on forever. Instead, he picked up a thigh bone and cracked it open, sucking what marrow he could from it. The jagged end of it he used to pluck, ineffectually, scraps of meat from between his teeth. Sitting back, his stomach pleasantly full of good food, he surveyed their little camp. ‘Those Orcs ain’t bad little fellows,’ he offered in a congenial tone. ‘Think up some good fun, they do.’ He looked toward his brother. ‘Think they’ll have something thought up for us tonight?’