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Old 09-29-2004, 01:56 AM   #298
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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Rog

Rôg spent the whole of the day at the rocky outcropping a ways from the perimeter of the camp. Now the sun was dropping and soon people would be eating their evening meal. Miri had gone back to her family, they would have a quick meal, she had told him then gather about Ayar’s bier and sing to her. She tried one more time to entice him to come with her. He had only smiled gently at her saying he could not.

Aiwendil would soon be coming back to the tent, he thought, if he were not already there. Dinner should be seen to . . . by me, of course, he grinned. As he walked back into camp and toward the tent, he chuckled at a sudden image of the old fellow. Aiwendil, his nose caught in the leaves of some old book, or better yet gazing out at the great ‘V’ of honking swans that passed overhead in the evening above the fens of Swanfleet . . . his right hand held a long wooden spoon with which he pointed out the various birds . . . and behind him, over the small cooking fire, dinner was charring without notice in the pan.

He had just reached the tent when his young guard came puffing up, hastily put on scabbard flapping against his leg as he ran. ‘Still here,’ said Rôg, reaching into the tent and pulling out the bucket of water and its ladle. ‘And no trouble for you to take care of,’ he went on, handing the man a drink. ‘You know – I’m just going to make the evening meal for Aiwendil and myself. You’re more than welcome to stay.’ He crouched down by the small pile of wood to the side of the tent‘s entryway and picked up enough for a small little cooking fire. In the midst of stacking the dried grasses and wood, Rôg looked over at the guard who had crouched down across the small pit and was using the flint to help get the fire started. ‘I had heard there would be the singing for Ayar tonight.’ Rôg said, not looking up from the little fire as he fanned it. He heard the guard shift across from him. ‘I will not be going, but there is no reason you should not. There will be no problem from me tonight.’ He placed the cooking pot on the rocks round the low burning fire and poured a little oil into the bottom. ‘You should go to your family’s tent,’ he said, stirring the chunks of onion and the few pieces of goat he’d been given by one of the families that day. He heard the young man stand up, and he nodded at him without looking up from his cooking. ‘Go on, then.’

In the space of an hour the little pot of stew was done. Rôg set it to the side of the fire to keep warm, while he baked a few pieces of flatbread to go with it. Those he wrapped in cloth and set them atop the flat lid of the stewpot. He sat back on the mat just outside his tent, waiting for Aiwendil to come. As the sun dropped lower, and the old man had not yet appeared, Rôg grew restless. He banked the fire, pushing the little dinner close up to the coals. From his pack inside the tent he pulled out his small notebook, his ink, and quill.

~*~

Have left dinner for you, warming by the fire.
Take your warm cloak with you tonight to the singing.
The night, I think, will prove chilly.

Have gone to be with my family and clan.
My little traveling bag is stowed at the back of the tent for now.

Miri has agreed to look in you and fetch whatever you may need.
There are some sweets you can dole out to her (and yourself, of course!)
in the side pocket of my pack.

Take care, my friend!

-- Rôg


~*~

The note he placed on Aiwendil’s sleeping mat, tucked halfway beneath a corner of the old man’s cloak he had folded and put there as a gentle reminder. Rôg stepped to the center of the tent and leapt up . . . out the opened entryway flew a small brown bat, heading south . . .

Last edited by piosenniel; 09-30-2004 at 10:41 AM.
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