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"A Rider?" Fionn echoed, the corners of his mouth curving into a wry smile. "Oh, I've thought about it, to be sure. Most of the village lads have thought about it, when they were younger." He stood and stretched, and went to the party's saddlebags. He dug through their packs, looking for a kettle or something that would serve as one.
"Most've us would have done anything for a chance. But the fact is, we're farmers," he continued, as though the concept of becoming a Rider were but a silly childhood dream. "I don't weild a great lance or ride giant horse; I raise chickens." He grinned over his shoulder at the man and held up a small copper kettle.
"Found one," he said, waving the kettle. "Don't suppose the others will mind us using it; they'll be drinking from it too." He dissappeared for a moment, going down to the stream. He came back a few minutes later with the pot filled with clear water.
It had been a lie; Fionn would have jumped at the chance to join the Riders. Yes, he knew it sounded like the stereotypical young hero story. A farm boy from nowhere in particular rises to greatness in the service of his King. But it was much more appealing than the story of his life thusfar: amateur archer and lord of a vegetable garden and a bunch of brainless chickens.
Despite his apparent naiveté, Fionn knew when to keep some dreams to himself. Otherwise, they were trod upon. This was one of those dreams.
Fionn set the kettle down by the fire. The smell of cooking potatoes made his stomach growl.
"I don't think plain potatoes have ever sounded so appealing," he said with a laugh. "Although hopefully the others will have had some luck hunting, and then we'll have some meat to go with 'em." Still, he thought, some butter would be nice as well.
Fionn reclaimed his seat by the fire.
"You said you've been to Edoras?" he asked suddenly. "As a Rider? What was it like? I've never seen it."
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