Completed Bebs and Breakfas: Faramund

[Bebin Theros]

Some years ago...

---

A crackle and hiss, warm and emberic as the little tongues of gold and red wriggled and waved, fast with excitement, they ate up the tinder. Wood shavings and pine needles, and cracked open cones.

Bebin smiled, and gave the small flame a nod, pleased with fruit of his labor.

Next came the clay pot, which was burried carefully within his pack. A woolen lambskin draped about it, to help preserve the fragile vessel. T'was a thing of his people. Of the mountain folk of the distant Seret. Amber hued, and smooth. Made only with the magick of hands to wet earth. He set it unto the fire.

Poured the dried lentils he carried there in next. Pulled a small pouch from which he pinched a bit of salt. The fragrances of the lentils wafted about the dark of the morning camp. The silvery mists of the cool morning air swirled about as the others made ready their packs.

"Smells good, Bebs," Merrycourt said from some ways behind.

Legault made a sound of a agreement as he tightened his bed roll.

Bebin smiled, and watched the water steam.

---

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'A pinch of salt, some diced lamb, onions, and the merest touch of panache.' The big knight nodded, as if impressed by Bebin's culinary skills. Perhaps he was. Perhaps. 'It does smell good though,' he admitted, securing his bed roll and fastening it to his horse's saddle.

The cold morning air had a refreshing bite to it, and the smell of cooking foodstuffs made the knight's belly rumble something fierce. Syr Merrycourt, as sharp-eyed and sharp-eared as ever, did not fail to notice the sound.

'I know, right!' A smile accompanied the sounds of rustling mail and bound leather. 'If only friend Bebin would use some of that dark magic of his to speed up the process.' There was the hint of tease to her voice, and when Faramund turned back to his companions, he could have sworn he saw mischief behind her eyes.

Legault's held something else.

'Oh, indeed,' agreed Faramund, slipping across to join the dusker by his pot of wonders. 'Alas, one cannot rush these things, 'less they fancy themselves a bellyful of food poisoning.' Legault huffed, amused. Merrycourt's smile brightened.

'Ah, yes, food poisoning. A dusker classic!'

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

A laugh came from the Dusker's lips. "You don't have to partake, if you'd rather not risk it, Linda,"

Merrycourt smirked. Put up her pack. Stuffed it against a log. "Now now, friend Bebin, no need to go all knife in the dark on me, over a friendly ribbing,"

Bebin hummed as he stirred the lentils, a deep bass sound that reverberated through his bones. "We take our tasks very seriously," he teased.

Legault pulled from his pack what looked to be a deep bellied pot, and went next to Bebin near the fire. Set up the cooking kettle.

As the lentils set to boil, Bebin moved back to his things.

Only in the first few days of their venture, they would leave behind much of what they carried with them now. Cached for a patrol of squires to come and resupply them for their journey back.

By the fire, Bebin laid a long wooden block, flat and well carved. A rugged cutting board upon which he laid a bulk, bundled in supple leather. A few runes burned across it's surface helped mask the scent of its contents.

Merrycourt looked to Faramund. "You better not go expecting me to cook like this on our long ranges, oh Mund o' mine," she grinned, as she settled in beside the big Dawnling.

The bundle undone, spiced and fragrant cubes of raw lamb meat, coated in a paste colleree with coriander and cumin, curry and chilli. Spices from a distant land that seemed to heat the very air.

Legault had snuck some clay jars out of the cache. Uncorked them, poured a bit of oil into the heated iron, and spooned thick brown paste into the big bellied pot. It sizzled as it skate around. He took a wooden spoon and stirred.

The scent of it was rich and savory as it filled the air. A few bulbs of garlic came out of Bebin's pack, and a quick smash with his long curved knife saw the fragrant cloves crushed to release their scent.

"Help with the onions," Bebin smirked. "Oh Mund son of Mund,"

 

[Faramund]

'I don't recall telling you my old man's name.' The big dawnling's eyebrows knitted together as he unsheathed his dagger. 'Another mystery in need of solving, that' But not today, thought Faramund, reaching into the sack the squires had stashed for them a few days prior.

'Luck to you.' Swiping an onion from the big man's hands, Merrycourt whipped her own dagger free with all the vigour of a loan shark collecting on a debt.

Not that onions could owe people money, right? Right?

As small as his part was in the preparation of their morning meal, Faramund was more than happy to play it. Taking pleasure from the simple things in life was one of his specialties. Acquiring a new drinking buddy, for example. Or discovering a never before seen vista.

Making friends, forging bonds, killing baddies.

And falling in love, though, one could argue there was nothing simple about that. 'Keep a close eye on our friends here,' he told Merrycourt. 'If we're not careful, these duskers are like to slip something into the pot. Spices, for instance.' Faramund shivered. Gods how he hated spicy food.

'Better than a spoonful of poison,' Legault commented, trying awfully hard to echo the tone and timbre of his mentor.

'Same difference,' replied Faramund, unperturbed. Salty tears stung his eyes, gave his knife hand pause. 'Are you... crying?'

'No! What're you on about?' Merrycourt swept her hair back over her ear with the point of her blade, revealing runny eyes and that smile he had come to enjoy seeing. 'Honestly, you can be such a fool-ass sometimes, you know that?'

'Considering how often you like to remind me, yes, I do!' Grinning, he gave her shoulder a gentle bump.

 

[Bebin Theros]

Each band of Knights had their own traditions.

Each ranging its own set of secrets and hideaways.

Safehouses. Back trails. Scenic routes, for when the patrol was easy and the danger far in the distance. Some knights had teas stored in their caches. Others, fine pipe weed. Bebin dealt in spices, and dried goods that would see those with him well fed.

Little did more than a meal, well prepared, to rouse the spirits, and keep the fight in the bones. Even if the only enemy to best was boredom.

The scents of the spices seemed to mix as each pot sizzled and bubbled its song.

"Enough of your flirtations," Bebin said through half laugh. "Faramund, onions, three quarters in the iron, one quarter in the clay," he grinned slyly. "And what do you think makes the food taste so good, hmm?"

Legault smiled softly. "Its the spices," he added.

Bebin slipped the smashed garlics into each pot. Relished in the crisp sizzle of it as it land within the belly of the cast iron. "And garlic," he nod in approval of the pungent bite of the vegetable's aroma.

 

[Faramund]

'Syr, yes, syr!' Simple instructions for a simple man. Exactly what I like to hear. The threat of spices, however... 'Think I'd prefer the poison,' the big knight said, distributing the onions as told. Three parts iron, one part clay. 'But as I said, same difference.' A pinch of spiced lamb wasn't likely to kill him at least, but the day was newly born.

Anything could happen, really.

Listening to the crackle of the fire, and the gentle rush of wind through the trees, Faramund asked, 'what's next?'

'Now, we wait,' chimed in Merrycourt, tugging at the back of his gambeson, as if he were a child grown too close to roaring flame. 'Let the professionals handle it. I know from experience the only thing worse than my cooking is yours.'

Faramund's face creased thoughtfully. Were his mushroom stews really that bad, or was she just teasing him?

From what he knew of Merrycourt and his cooking, the answer was probably both.

'All right, then.' Without a sound, the dawnling settled in beside the fair-haired ranger. A cloak appeared about his shoulders, to warm him. Merrycourt rested her head against his arm. 'Much better,' she purred, smiling across at Bebin and Legault as they toiled away. ''Tis easier to observe, and learn from the masters, is it not?'

Faramund nod. 'Aye.'

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bird song began to fill the air. Trills and chirps and calls cawed be the odd pair of raven, perched about.

The onions turned gold in the iron as they sizzled, and bounced and jiggled in the boil of the lentils. Bebin raised the plank upon which he cut, and slid the chunks of gravied meat into the iron pot. A crackle and hiss as the fatty yogurt and juices began to fry in the thin wash of oil that pooled at the bottom of the pot.

"Easier," Legault said with a smile, as he took a spoon, and began to stir the contents of the pot. "But not as fruitful," he clang clanged the wooden spoon against the pot's brim, and set the utensil up in a crudely shaped s hook.

Bebin nod his approval, and sealed the clay jar with its lid. The iron pot would be left to simmer, and the air was soon full of the smells of Seretti curry.

He worked himself up, and took a seat by the pack he had prepped hours ago. Dark rings beneath his eyes, but he looked pleased all the same as he folded his hands across the plane of his stomach.

Legault moved next, and sat down beside his own pack, and pulled out leather bound pages. A stick of charcoal came next, and he began to scribble across the blank pages.

 

[Faramund]

'I don't know,' replied Faramund, taking a whiff. 'Smells like it's bearing up just fine.' Of course, he was a novice at best, but that didn't prevent him from admiring the work of others. 'Beats salt beef and bread, anyway.' Merrycourt snorted. 'The cornerstones of any ranger's breakfast,' she said. 'How you got to be so big is anyone's guess, friend Mund.'

'Got lucky, I guess.' The dawnling shrugged. 'Haven't skipped a meal in my life. "Live healthy, eat hearty," my mother used to say.' Or at least he thought she did. He barely remembered the woman, and it was hard to tell which of his memories were true sometimes.

There was a lot going on in his head, after all. Little of it good.

There was the crunch and shift of dried parchment and cloth as Legault withdrew a few items from his pack. 'What've you got there?' Faramund asked the dusker, ever curious of things that didn't concern him.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Legault smiled, easily as his stick of coal traced across the fine paper, gathered between the leather bindings that made up his journal. "Just a means to pass the time," the young man said, his eyes never leaving the cream colored parchment.

With long and languid strokes, an image started to take shape. Quick little scratches of the tool betwixt his fingers rendered out the loose shapes of a skull, and a rough likeness of the big and curious knight.

A few strokes in, and he shifted to drawing the eyes. Glanced up to see if the big knight was still there.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Fair enough. Out here on the Range, a man didn't often have the luxury of time. There was always something going on that demanded your attention, be it the storm clouds on the horizon or the flock of birds scattering from the nearby woodlands.

Legault's scribbling and the bubbling of the cook pot took the place of conversation, and for a time the knights sat in companionable silence. Until it became too much for one of them to bear.

'What is it he's writing do y'think?' Merrycourt's voice was little more than a whisper on the morning breeze. Airy, but curious as all get-out. Sometimes, the two dawnlings were of the same mind. Sometimes. 'Not writing,' said Faramund, watching the way the dusker's eyes and hand roamed. 'Drawing.'

'How can you tell? Last I'd heard, you could barely spell your own name.'

'Can't draw, neither,' the dawnling replied, shrugging as was his wont. 'It's just... well, he's too loosey goosey with it, you know? The strokes, scratchings and what not.'

'Uh-huh.' Merrycourt seemed doubtful. 'How very observant of you.'

 

[Bebin Theros]

Legault laughed, his stick of charcoal never quite stopping it's steady scritch and scratch across the page. "How very observant indeed," Legault looked up at the pair that were so close to one another. "Suppose it makes sense," he said with a friendly smile upon his face. "A ranger's eyes must be keen, and you've proven yourself to be quite the ranger, Syr Faramund,"

Bebin had a laugh from his rest against the log. "That he has," he uncoiled himself, and rose up to his feet, and tended the pots.

As soon as he stirred the lamb, the fragrant aroma of foreign spices, heat, and the succulent fat that had rendered from the meat and turned to part of the stew, filled the air.

"Now imagine, if he could but read and write, how much more he could do," the big Dusker grinned.

 

[Faramund]

Letting their words wash over him, Faramund accepted Legault's compliment almost sheepishly. 'I'm glad you think so, friend Legault.' Not everyone had been as welcoming as the dusker. A few had even gone so far as to cast aspersions on him, in the early days.

Before he had proven himself.

'Don't remind me.' The Captain had threatened to place him under house arrest if he continued to persist with what she had dubbed his "stubborn arsery." When he had pointed out that "arsery" wasn't a word, she had damn near put his head through the wall.

But at least he had gotten away with not having to learn his letters. For now, anyway.

'Gonna have to learn sooner or later,' said Merrycourt, as if reading his mind. 'You can't put it off forever.'

'"Forever" is a very long time indeed,' Faramund conceded, nodding his head. 'But I'm sure I could manage, if I set my mind to it.' Merrycourt sighed. 'What?'

'Nothing! Stubborn arse.'

 

[Bebin Theros]

"Sure would have come in handy, when we had gotten in to Fort Lantrath," the young Dusker said, wistful warmth in his voice.

Bebin grumbled, still stirring the stewing curry with a happy curl at the corner of his lip. "Took us weeks to get the blood out of the missives," The deep golden brown of the gravy bubbled and popped with wisps of steam.

"And he had seen the whole thing before they'd happened upon him, too" Legault tutted his tongue, in good jest.

 

[Faramund]

'You're awful knowledgeable for a guy that wasn't in the room at the time.' Faramund's retort was playful, if a little bitter. Fort Lantrath had been one of those high-risk, high-reward missions that not just anyone could have pulled off. It had been the first real test of Faramund's abilities as a knight of Anathaeum.

And he had fucked it up. Royally.

'We managed to salvage the damned things at least, as you say.' He jutted his chin at Bebin. The dusker, as was his way, had been rather nonchalant about the whole affair. Faramund was sure he would have found the lack of a reaction annoying, if not for the fact he found it somewhat endearing, too.

'Next time we find ourselves having to infiltrate someone's study, perhaps you should be the one to search their desk,' Faramund suggested, brown eyes aglow with the new dawn's light as he regarded Legault from across the bubbling pot. 'Just an idea.'

 

[Bebin Theros]

Legault made a funny gesture with his hands, waving his fingers about as he smirked, and went back to drawing.

Bebin huffed a half laugh. "We did," his eyes cut up to regard the big Dawnling. "Another effort that could have been aided, were you able to wield your letters, friend Mund,"

"A good idea at that," Legault smiled warmly. "We'll just have you deal with some of the mind delving, next then?" he looked, expectant as a young brother might after getting one up on his elder. Saw the light play across Faramund's eyes. The humor washed out of the young knight's face. Legault blinked. Stared a moment too long.

Bebin was already at the clay bowls. Had put some rounds of flat bread near the fire in between the back and forth. "Foods just about ready," he announced to the others. Already ladling cooked lentils into the bowls, scoop, by hearty scoop.

 

[Faramund]

'Maybe one day,' the dawnling answered vaguely, expression as sour as the day he was born. All this talk of letters and learning was making him hungry, and a hungry Mund was a grouchy Mund. The way Legault was looking at him didn't help much neither.

'Something the matter?'

Merrycourt stirred. 'Aye.' Wetting her thumb, she rubbed at a spot on his cheek, just below his left eye. 'Had a little dirt there, nothing too severe.' She smiled at him, but he knew her attention was directed towards another. Probably the chef.

Speaking of.

'Good enough for me.' Unpacking a few eating utensils, Faramund scooted closer to Bebin as the dusker began to pour. Bowls exchanged hands. The dawnling regarded his for a moment before passing it back. 'Please, syr, may I have some more?'

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin huffed a laugh. His lips cut by a wry grin. "A growing boy," he said with rumble in his throat. He dipped the ladle into the lentils, and scooped up more of the gravied legumes. Spiced and coated with a thick sauce. He poured them over the Dawnling's bowl, and scooped up another few chunks of lamb. "Here then," he said, and took up a warm steaming round of flat bread. Laid it atop the food stuffs like a lid. "To keep you strong," he teased.

Legault had fallen into an odd silence. His eyes fixed on his drawing papers with an intensity that was not there prior.

"Gault," Bebin called out to him. "Come on then, put your things away and get yourself some food, before this bear eats it all,"

Legault laughed, and stowed his journal into his pack. The stick of coal too. Smiled and squinted his eyes as he worked himself up to be served. "Thank you for the reminder, Syr, sometimes, the passion takes me,"

Bebin shook his head. "Even a fish needs rest,"

The young Dusker gave a nod. Still cheeryfaced as he held out his bowl.

 

[Faramund]

With a grateful nod, the bear settled back on his haunches. Merrycourt took her fill soon after. Legault was the last. 'I know the feeling,' said Faramund, blowing on a spoonful of something steamy. His words earned him a boot from Merrycourt, but at least it got a rise out of the kid.

Well, a small smile, anyway.

Quieting down, the knights tucked into their breakfast with vigour. Bebin's curries were renowned throughout the Order. To squander the opportunity by letting it go cold would have been tantamount to betrayal, and Faramund was no traitor. Especially when the food was this good.

...

Mopping up his bowl with what flat bread remained to him, the big dawnling set it aside with a contented sigh. 'That did the trick.' It was a shame there was not enough left for second helpings. Still, it made for a pretty good start to the day. Can only go downhill from here.

'I'm surprised it even touched the sides.' Merrycourt commented snidely. 'Like a gannet, so you are.'

Faramund grinned. 'So I am,' he agreed. 'Compliments to the cooks! I could barely taste the poison.'

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin smirked, dagger sharp. "You won't taste the poison," he said as he put bits and bobs in neat piles. Spoons with spoons. Bowls with bowls. "I can promise you that,"

Legault didn't seem to like that joke much. He cleared his throat, still finishing the last bites of his meal. "Must we always be so... morose?"

Bebin went on with his work, quiet as he readied to move.

Legault sighed. Shook his head, and went on eating.

"How did your drawings turn out, Legault?" he asked, and picked up the things.

"Oh, um, quite good i think," he tittered nervously. "Would you like to see them, Syr Faramund?"

 

[Faramund]

Promises, promises. Grinning across at Bebin, Faramund nodded. There was nothing wrong with a bit of dark humour this early in the morning. Merrycourt, listening in, smiled to herself, shook her head at their foolish antics.

Legault, Serious Samwell that he was, disapproved. Big surprise there.

Eyeing the younger dusker, Mund said, 'Sorry, 'Gault. Couldn't help myself.' Which was true enough. He really couldn't keep his tongue from wagging. One of these days it would get him in trouble.

Settled in, waiting for his food to go down, the big dawnling gazed past the cookfire to the vista beyond. There wasn't much to see. A low fog had settled over the hinterlands, obscuring much. Up here, the skies were mercifully clear, blue as the warmest oceans.

Two days 'til they were home and safe. It wasn't a question. Faramund knew his distances, could spot a gnat on a horse's flanks at a hundred paces. He-

Legault's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Blinking, Fara turned an eye towards the dusker. 'Sure!' He replied, climbing to his feet. Merrycourt made a half-hearted attempt to stop him. He knew she was just being playful. Faramund rounded the fire. 'What have we got here, then?' He asked, leaning down to look over Legault's shoulder.

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin gave a slight smile beneath his dark whiskers. Glad that the boy was opening up some.

Eager, but with some nerves, Legault opened up the leather bound folio. Flipped through renderings of plant life, rock formations, the runic patterns that had surrounded the ambusher's fire pit, and the curios that had been recoverd. All meticulously put onto the paper. All, capturing an unmistakable essence of the young man's subjects.

Until he finally arrived at renditions of Faramund's face.

"You had a very... strong look in your eye," he said, as if thinking through what about it had captured him so. "Well, what do you think?"

 

[Faramund]

Legault's journal was like a storybook, each new page a different scene. Faramund saw misty mountains and dry riverbeds, tumbledown buildings and manmade hillocks. A history of sorts, not to be mocked or ignored. And the quality of the drawings themselves was nothing to make light of.

A flash of a familiar pattern made the dawnling's brow furrow in concentration, gone before he could place it.

'My... eye?' Faramund scratched at his cheek thoughtfully. 'I like it. Nose is a bit big, I fancy, but apart from that...' He shrugged, thumped Legault on the back like one might a brother. 'Sure you're in the right profession?'

Crossing back to his side of the fire, Faramund sunk back down to his seat. He could feel Merrycourt watching him closely, like there was some big secret he was keeping from her. 'What?' Mund asked innocently. 'He had a drawing of you in there, too.'

'Did he now!' Merrycourt's attention shifted. 'Got something you'd like to show with the class, Gault?'

 

[Bebin Theros]

Legault's smile soured some. "Not my fault you've the nose of a hawk, Syr," he barbed. A hard thump upon his back started him. Caused his expression to brighten as he fell forward. A blush rosied his cheeks as the Mund walked away. "Never hurts to have a back up plan, I suppose," they young knight muttered to himself.

When Merrycourt next spoke, the young man seemed to start some. Laughed. "Oh, heh, I mean" he looked down at his notes, his drawings. "Only if you want to see, Syr," he said sheepish as he half hid his book against his chest.

Bebin was just finishing up with the last of the packing.