Arthur a Bland (tan_thy_hide) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2021-02-14 10:27:00 |
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It’s a funny old life in the greenwood. Arthur’s a habitual light sleeper, and as usual he wakes in the predawn twilight. The masonry stove has guttered down to dull embers and there’s a sharp chill creeping into the cabin, though not enough to bother him through the layers of fur blankets. Turns out his old trade still has its uses. The first few winters were a learning curve. It gets far colder here than it ever got in Sherwood; even in June there are days he’ll wake to find the earth covered with a fine rime of frost. Was one year early on, the cabin got caught in a blizzard, ripped the door clean off and that wind was blowing so bad he couldn’t get the fire started again. Hell of a time. Can’t recall for the life of him how he got out of it, either; next he remembers, it was the tail-end of spring, bunch of birds were making a racket in the rafters and a bloody badger had given birth in his bed. And the damn door was off its hinges again! Should’ve got Stoots to fix it up sturdier, but of course the man’s never around when you need him. (Every so often, when the winter storms howl and rattle at the roof and the icy draft stings his skin even through the layers of fur, Arthur dreams of winds that slice clean to the bone, of freezing and burning up all at once, numb fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers, tearing off layer after layer in a feverish bid to escape the heat. But Arthur is no stranger to nightmares, and they usually dissipate quickly in the morning light.) He gets the stove crackling again and puts some water on to boil. This time of year, he never bothers with the tank, there’s nothing can be done to stop it from freezing over. A few big pots of snow, melted down as needed, serves him just fine for the winter months. Tea’s a luxury out here, but fuck it, Arthur’s English and some mornings he just needs a proper cuppa. Gotta be careful to stretch it out, though; he’s almost exhausted his last bulk catering box of teabags, and after that he’s stuck with trying to brew up dried pine needles or dandelion roots, and he still ain’t figured out a way to make them taste like anything other than grotty water. But maybe he’ll hit it lucky before there. Robbie and John can’t be far off now and they’ll be sure to have fresh supplies with them. (Though it does seem like they’ve been gone a long while now. Long enough to be worried? Nah. Nah, Robin and John can look after themselves, course they can. Just a matter of waiting here at the rendezvous.) Arthur gulps down his tea with a can of baked beans and some moose jerky. By the time he’s rugged up and ready to get moving, the sun’s coming up, staining the clouds a faded pink. Red sky at warning, sailors take warning. More storms on the way, mayhap. There was a fair snow last night, so once he’s done his initial perimeter check, he fetches his shovel and gets to work on it. Snow, he’s learned, makes for bloody good insulation if you know how to use it. Bank it up and pack it in around the base of the cabin, and it’ll block drafts, help keep the heat inside. After that, it’s over to the wood shed to restock the cabin’s supply, and then the real work of the day can begin. With crossbow in hand and his trusty pikestaff slung over his back, Arthur sets out on his usual patrol. The Merry Men aren’t the only ones who walk these woods, and you’ve always gotta be prepared. Last week, he crossed paths with a trio of blokes in paramilitary get-up. They tensed to see him, grips tightening on their guns, before one laughed and asked whether he was hunting moose with that pea-shooter. They obviously thought he was an idiot. Pretending to be huntsmen, as if anybody would use a high-powered assault rifle to bring down a moose. Arthur recognised their game at once. They wanted to get him talking, pal up to him, till he admitted he was a hunter, too, then they’d round on him for poaching. Make him lead them at gunpoint to his cabin, take it and his stash for their own. Marauders or undercover feds, it didn’t make no difference; they both wanted the same thing. But Arthur had been at this longer than they had. He played friendly, asked them innocently about their gear and let them do the talking as he led them down a deceptively twisting path. “This baby here, this is the same model the US Army uses,” one guy bragged. Just straight up admitted it, like a fucking amateur! Another, the one who’d called Arthur’s crossbow a pea-shooter, started rattling off the specs of his AR-15 with a practiced ease. Sure, they were just ordinary hunters. Ordinary hunters packing military-style equipment. Hah, right. Just how dumb did they think he was? He gave them the slip just before they realised he’d gotten them thoroughly turned around, left a couple of false trails just in case before taking a circuitous route back to the cabin. He spent the next few days tense and paranoid, laying extra booby traps and expecting at any moment to see the glint of a rifle scope through the trees, but either he’d succeeded in losing them or they’d given it up for too much work, because he saw no more of them. Can’t afford to let his guard down, though. Could be that’s what they’re waiting for. Or for him to led them to Robin. And they’re not all so incompetent as that lot were. The Lost Hiker trick, that’s one you gotta watch for out here. They usually try it in the spring and summer, when he’s like to cross paths with genuine hikers, and it can be nigh-on impossible to tell the difference, they play the part so well. Real or fraud, it always starts the same: a hiker or two, usually woefully underequipped and plastered with sweat, waves him over, asks for directions or water or first aid. And he’ll give it, cos Arthur’s not one to deny anyone in need. Sometimes they want to chat, and it can be innocent enough, do you live round here, how long, that kind of thing. And sometimes— sometimes it takes a more pointed turn. Is your place close by, could we use your facilities, could we use your phone— classic infiltration tactic. That’s always when he knows he’s gotta send ‘em packing. Today, he encounters nobody, just a couple of rabbits caught in his snares. Arthur puts them out of their misery swiftly. Not much meat between the two of ‘em, especially to feed the whole crew, but Much’ll figure something out, he always does. The thought pulls him up short, and he frowns. No. No Much. No crew. Just him. Least until Robin and the others get here. Can’t be far out now. Could be any day. With the sun high in the sky, Arthur finishes his circuit and heads for home. |