Boucher Farmstead, a few miles outside of Port-a-Lucine; Mid-afternoon of April 21st, 770
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Agale wrote:"Where precisely did the altercation with this hound occur and under what circumstances? We would also like to interview, but understand if his condition has progressed to the point where even consultation would be detrimental."
Lia wrote:"How say you, Reynard Boucher? May we speak to your son? Is there any advice or aid you can give us beyond what you have already done?"
Nicolas wrote:"Now I'm sure we can call on you agian if we have further questions, but for now I would dearly like to talk to your son, to see what he may know of this hound and if we may do something to ease his pain. Adieu."
"I can show you where it was, it isn't a secret," the elder Boucher said. "If Philippe wants to talk, I'll let him talk. Long as you don't threaten to string him up you can't be much worse than some of the others."
"Only you promise me one thing," Reynard added stoically, as he started to turn his plow around to head back to the household. "If you can't save my son, you
hang whoever's responsible for this."
Boucher Farmhouse, a few miles outside of Port-a-Lucine; Mid-afternoon of April 21st, 770
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you had taken roughly
three of your bedrooms from the Chateau and cobbled them together, you would have had something the size of the Boucher farmhouse. There wasn't much more to say about it. It had been hammered and nailed together out of wood, the timber planks now brown with weather and age. A small tool shed and a larger barn sat nearby, cut from the same cloth as the house. You could say one thing for it, it had a nice view. A small brook ran through the fields nearby it, giving way to a pastoral scene that a master painter could have found worthy. Only a large, ugly patch of brown and black across the river marred the green stalks of wheat and rye. Here and there a few chickens scratched around in the dirt, looking for morsels or grubs. One of them strutted over to Kerrian, cocking its head at him as if expecting to be fed.
"It chased him across the river to the tool shed," Reynard told you, not bothering to identify either party. It was obvious enough. He took his leave for you for a moment to pass the plow and oxen off to a square-jawed man who came out of the house, whom you could only guess was one of his sons. A bit of conversation later and Reynard came back, opening the door to the house with the general assumption you'd follow.
The interior of the house was as unremarkable as the exterior. It was incredibly crowded in here compared to the Chateau, or any of the buildings in Port a Lucine except for the tenements in the slums. What furniture there was had been made by hand, and there wasn't much of it. Everywhere in the house were the signs of a family that had been living on little for a long time.
"So," a voice said as you came in. It was easy enough to find the room you were looking for, as you could see most the rooms in the house easily enough. And it was easy enough to see Thierri, sitting in a chair by a bed, looking over his shoulder at you. The expression on his face was quite unreadable. He didn't look happy to see you, but then, he didn't look happy in general, and had good reason not to be. You weren't even sure if he'd expected to see you at all, or if perhaps he was examining who, out of the Chateau, had actually come. The only thing you knew for certain was that he was tense. "I see we were kind enough to bring only half an army into the house. Are we here to finish the hound's job by interrogating him in your usual manner?"
"Knock it off, boy," Reynard said. He looked from the young magician to all of you. "Take it you know these fine people? He didn't put you up to this, did he?" he asked all of you, folding his arms in front of his chest.
The man lying on the bed was in his early twenties, a bit taller than his father but with the same muscular build. He was somewhat more attractive than his brothers, with liquid blue eyes and an angel's smile. He smiled at you all as you entered the house, though the expression was a little too off to be pleasant. The eyes were glazed with fever, and his face glistened with sweat. His short hair, normally parted to the side, was currently a bit of a mess. A damp cloth lay across his forehead.
He blinked a bit when he registered the habit and holy symbol Sister Nerit was wearing. "Ah hell," he swore slightly. "I'm not that bad off, am I?"
Center of Troischamps, a few miles outside of Port-a-Lucine; Mid-afternoon of April 21st, 770
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Cyrus, Darius, Tomas! Good to see you! Ladies," Christophe said, bowing politely to the two women, completely failing to recognize Katja from the ball several weeks ago. Given that Katja had been hiding behind a buffet table at the time, and Christophe soon had other things vying for his attention that night, this was perhaps understandeable. "We're here... uh..."
"We're here on family business." Bertriz Renier intervened smoothly, regarding the small group with large, hazel eyes. This was probably to Christophe's relief, as he shut up very quickly. "Trading, things like that. Gentlemen, ladies, if I may introduce you to M. Maurice, the local factor."
M. Maurice bowed awkwardly. He was a short, well-fed looking man in his middle years, with a broad, waxed mustache and the look of a petty merchant about him. "Charmed."
"Go ahead, cousin, tell them the rest of your story." Bertriz said with a dimpled smile directed in the general vicinity of the menfolk. "We're all ears."
"Uh... right, where was I..." Christophe said, casting an apologetic smile at the children. "Well, the Piper, now that the town elders had agreed to pay him, went to the center of town. There, he drew a long, wooden flute out of his colorful coat, and the Piper began to pipe. It was a very flitty music, like so..."
At this point, Christophe attempted to whistle. He was not very good at it, but his young audience didn't seem to mind, giggling at his enthusiastic attempts. Bertriz rolled her eyes.
