Honour Restored

A number of months ago…

At a gathering of the Northymbran court—one of those long, draughty affairs where wine was thin and conversation did most of the warming—Ser Bruin stood in a loose knot of retainers and lesser knights, cheerfully holding forth on the subject of chowder. He spoke with great authority and many broad gestures, describing the proper heft of root vegetables, the moral necessity of a long simmer, and the particular virtue of adding “just a touch more salt than feels sensible.” His audience laughed and nodded, for Ser Bruin was nothing if not earnest. Somewhere below the level of his belt, Baron Étienne-Lucien de Fromagecourt-sur-Ébrée cleared his throat and, in precise Frankish tones, offered a correction to Bruin’s pronunciation of chaudrée. The Baron repeated himself, softly but firmly, twice more. Ser Bruin, meanwhile, had launched into an anecdote involving a chipped pot, three onions, and a heroic turnip, and did not so much as glance down.

Matters escalated in the way such things often do at court. Growing red of ear and whisker, the Baron stepped forward and struck Ser Bruin smartly on the knee with a white glove, issuing a formal challenge to a duel at dawn, complete with lineage, titles, and a carefully enunciated statement of mortal insult. Ser Bruin paused only to rub his knee absently, mistaking the sensation for a draft or perhaps an overenthusiastic pat from a passing squire. He smiled, nodded to no one in particular, and resumed his discourse, now on the advantages of bread thick enough to stand upright in the bowl. When dawn came and Ser Bruin did not, Baron de Fromagecourt-sur-Ébrée was left fuming in the morning mist, affronted beyond measure—while Ser Bruin, entirely unaware a duel had ever been proposed, was elsewhere extolling the virtues of leftovers.

During the skirmish…

Ser Bruin noticed the fox first because of the way it moved—low, easy, and wrong. He was laughing with Oona one moment, enjoying the simple pleasure of standing between her and the press of bodies, when something in the corner of his eye tightened his chest. A fox, thin and sharp, circling. Ser Bruin’s grin widened in relief. Ah, he thought, there you are. He took one heavy step forward, then another, armour clattering cheerfully as he broke into a charge. Someone yelped something high-pitched behind him. It didn’t sound important.

Across the churn of the melee, the Baron saw the dog and felt his whiskers bristle. Fate, at last, had placed them on the same ground. Drawing himself up to his full and considerable height, Baron de Fromagecourt-sur-Ébrée called out, crisp and formal, naming the dog and his offence in flawless Frankish. The words vanished into the noise. The brute thundered forward without a glance. The Baron’s ears flattened. To be ignored again—on a field of arms, no less—was an insult beyond endurance. Blade flashing, the Baron sprang after him, honour demanding pursuit.

The fox was quicker than it looked. Ser Bruin swung, broadly and with enthusiasm, and the fox simply wasn’t there anymore. He laughed, delighted. Good reflexes! He turned, tracking the movement, dimly aware of a sharp stab at his side that felt like catching a long thorn through cloth. Odd, that. He gave his flank a puzzled pat, barely registering a warm dampness, but he kept his eyes on the fox, who was already repositioning, still stalking Oona. That would not do at all.

The Baron darted in, perfectly placed, and struck. The point slipped between armour plates exactly as his fencing master had taught him. The dog reacted only with mild surprise. Baron de Fromagecourt withdrew cleanly, heart racing—not with fear, but with vindication. The blow had landed. The challenge, though unacknowledged, had been answered. He advanced again, ready to press his advantage, dimly aware of the fox circling with less than gentlemanly intent.

The world lurched. Not much—just enough to be confusing. Ser Bruin took another swing at the fox and missed again, this time by a whisker. Then something very solid struck him from behind. The sound was tremendous, like a bell rung underwater. He had a brief, sincere thought that he ought to apologise to someone for sitting down in the middle of a fight. Then the ground rose up to meet him.

The dog collapsed heavily, armour ringing as it hit the earth. The Baron halted, blade raised, then lowered it with satisfaction. His opponent was down. Honour, long delayed, had finally been met in steel. He did not spare a glance for the fox melting back into the press, nor did he consider the provenance of the final blow. Such details were immaterial. The insult had been answered. The matter was, at last, concluded.

When Ser Bruin later woke to concerned faces and a splitting headache, he was pleased to see Oona safe and unhurt. He had no recollection of any duel, any mouse, or indeed any grievance at all. He did, however, remember the fox—and made a note to keep a closer eye out for sneaky ones in future.

Instigator

Fennel’s words hit like a rhythm in Pippin’s skull—burn it; burn it down—and suddenly he was moving, fast and twisted with purpose. The Hybernan stoat scurried forward, breath hot, heart louder than thought, a born firestarter set loose. He vaulted the fence in a blur of limbs and intent, landing hard in the shadow of the abandoned farmstead. That place. The thing inside it. The pull and the revulsion, all tangled together, like trouble humming just under the skin.

Steel kissed flint and the timbers flinched. Sparks leapt, hungry and alive, and Pippin grinned—sharp, feral—as flame took hold. The dried structure caught fast, burning, burning, the house going up as if it had been waiting for permission. Heat rolled out in waves, boards cracking, shadows snapping and dancing like they’d lost their minds. Pippin backed away, smoke stinging his eyes, pulse racing—I’m the trouble, he thought, watching the fire climb. Whatever had called to Fennel from within was drowned now, smothered in roar and ash, as the farmstead burned bright and violent against the dark.

A Prize?

Long after the flames guttered out and the noise of the skirmish faded into memory, Fennel returned to the ruin. The farmstead lay collapsed into itself, a low blackened hulk breathing out warmth and ash. She moved carefully, sifting through the cinders with bare paws, guided not by sight but by that same wrong pull she had felt before—muted now, dulled by fire, yet stubbornly present. Her fingers closed around something hard. A shard, darkened and heat-scarred. Its call was quieter, like an echo after a shout, but it still drew her close even as it made her skin prickle with unease.

She slipped it quickly into her pocket, a guilty glance over her shoulder though no one was there. Brund would worry if he saw it; she knew that. He already watched her too closely, wary of the way unseen things seemed to notice her in return. Fennel rested her paw against the hidden shard and felt a strange steadiness flow back into her, as if the world had clicked into a better alignment. The fire had tamed it, perhaps—or perhaps it had simply changed the terms. Either way, as her heartbeat slowed and the night settled, Fennel knew the thing was not done with her. And, quietly, she was not done with it either.

Game 3 of our Burrows & Badgers 2nd Ed campaign had Aaron, Vincent and myself in a fight over an abandoned farmstead. Whatever Corvitz had seized in Moorham, had a lure. It drew the other warbands to where the Raven had hidden the item, hoping to return to it and study it without the prying eyes of his fellow warband members. The main action happened when Ser Bruin charged Gardallach, ignoring completely Baron Étienne-Lucien de Fromagecourt-sur-Ébrelle, much to the mouses chagrin. The mouse proved a strong little combatant, wounding Ser Bruin before Gardallach took him out, though the Baron will doubtless forget that assistance in the retelling. Brund also had a clash with Duncan, again the Baron charging in, this time the little mouse dispatching the Albian squirrel!

In post game stuff I found another warband member… another Frankish mouse, Jacque de Tunnel. He’s lowborn, but at least can translate between The Northymbran dialect and Frankish… more than Baron Étienne-Lucien de Fromagecourt-sur-Ébrelle can do!

Until next time,

Owen