Open Sorry Sack of Bones

[Conrad Hornberger]

"Fa-the-diddle-dai-do, fa-the-diddle-day"

The clearing stank of copper and wet fur. Steam curled off the carcass of a fat red deer, belly slit wide and spilling its warmth. The deer hung from a crooked tree, its back legs roped over a thick branch. Blood ran slow and dark from the gutted deer, pooling in the tracks of Conrad’s boots. Black flies crawled in and out of the animal’s eyes, now popped and cloudy. Sweat, shit, and sweet decay all curdled together under the evening sun. The summer heat made everything worse. Thicker, stickier, riper. The tongue lolled like a red ribbon from it's mouth. The hide peeled back wet and shining, like pulling off a coat soaked in blood. It came away in heavy folds, clinging where it could, until Conrad grunted and yanked it free in a single heave. The exposed flesh glistened, a raw map of muscle and fat.

"Fa-the-diddle-dai-do, fa-the-diddle-day"

Conrad worked with the sure hands of a man who'd done this before. His tunic thrown over a stump nearby, soaked through with blood, wine, and the stink of a man who hadn’t washed properly in weeks. Sweat streaking down his chest, his face smeared with blood where he’d wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His breeches were dark wool, stained at the knees. Thick-necked and broad across the shoulders, he moved as someone who knew exactly how much damage he could do, and didn’t mind doing it. His hair was dark and chopped short, more out of convenience than style, though a few cowlicks still stuck out wild where sweat had dried. The blade he used was shaped just so, his own make, short and curved like a smile. He tossed the heart and the liver into a sack. Good eating, that. The lungs he left for the crows.

"Fa-the-diddle-dai-do, fa-the-diddle-day"

His voice had a smoker’s rasp even though he rarely lit a pipe. His men lounged around the clearing. “That’s lord’s meat,” one of the younger lads muttered, half-joking. Conrad didn’t look up from his work. Just kept sawing down the spine, each pull of the knife rough and deliberate. Blood dripped off his elbow.

“That so?” he grunted. “Ain’t no banners out here.”

The deer hung open from the tree like an offering to the wrong god.

 

[Ol' Ashe]

„We could take 'em.“
„Sit your onestake ass down, son.“

And that was the end of it for a while. Ashe didn't even look at the boy. Simply turned his small beady eyes to Gallows instead. The orkin considered it a moment, then shook his head. He didn't need to ask Mirth what she thought. She was the most careful among them these days. Didn't waste breath where a scowl did the work.

His paws still trembled. Shake found them two years back and hadn't left since. There had been a time where he feared it made him lesser. But it only made bloodwork messier. Meaner lookin'. What once would've been a clean cut or stab now drained red in jagged bursts. In the end, it only made the name grow louder.

„Gal.“ Needed a moment to think before he took her anyway. „Mirth. You're with me. Rest of you hold here.“

No questions. Just the quiet sound of settling down in the brush. Ashe moved past the treeline. He walked on all fours, slow and deliberate. His small stature drawn even lower by the gait. Old Baleclaw's bits barely held onto the clasps as he moved. He'd gotten fat with age. Dust and ash caked his fur as he made his way closer.

Mirth followed on his left, eyes sweeping the clearing. Counting. Remembering. A short, broad-shouldered woman in a motheaten coat, her greying hair long since abandoned the red she was known for. Scarred lips pressed together, no hint of youth or her namesake left in that jawline.

Gallows trailed the right, tall as damn signpost – six five and then some. Rope burns pale and clean across his bare neck. One hand on the longhook he preferred. His eyes didn't hold curiosity – only Ashe.

The three figures broke into the clearing without care or quiet. They didn't belong. And made no effort to pretend otherwise.

Ashe unrolled slow. Up from all fours like it took effort. Until he stood to his full, unimpressive height. Five even, dust caked and patchy. Sniffed at the air and turned to the butcher among them.

„You the Ox?“ in different times, from a different man, might've even sounded friendly. Tone of a man who liked to get names right.

 

[Conrad Hornberger]

The knife slid clean from the last of the sinew with a wet snick, and Conrad straightened, slow and deliberate, like a boulder remembering it can move. Broad, bare-chested, belly thick from the love of beer, arms roped with workman's muscle. Blood clung to him in streaks. Bits of fur too. Sweat darkened the waist of his breeches. Blood painted his bare arms from elbow to fingertips. The stag behind him hung half-carved, ribs split like shutters kicked in during a raid.

A few of his men reached for weapons when the three figures waltzed into the clearing. Didn’t shout. Just walked in like they owed them grounds. Conrad licked his teeth, then wiped the blade across his thigh, smearing a dark streak through layers of old crust and new gore.

"You the Ox?"

“Might be.”
Ox, Hog, Bastard... a beloved child had many names.

Bran half-raised his spear. One of the younger lads, the one missing two fingers, muttered something about the meat hook. West reached for the cudgel she never quite put down. Silence settled like ash. Crows called once.

Then the fire popped behind them.

"Depends who's askin'."

 

[Ol' Ashe]

His little snout felt the air.

He did not fail to notice the twitchy boys. Threestake, tops. You never killed those first. Because their movements told you all you needed to know. No. You always went for the quiet ones. Less things to worry about.

Sniffed again and looked back to the man. He couldn’t stop the tremors in his right. Days of pretending were long past. Took the moment and the quiet to take the tall one’s measure. Looked strong, but steps would tell him how to count. Could never be sure with big ones. They were often quicker than they should be. Like Pip had been.

“I think we ought to talk alone.” A hound couldn’t be reasonable in front of its pups. Ashe figured it was the same for oxen and heifers.

His belly hung lower these days, but eyes knew how to find the throat.