[NetBehaviour] Bron had a mate called Raven...

Simon Mclennan mclennanfilm at gmail.com
Fri Sep 4 10:16:50 CEST 2020

Bron had a mate called Raven. Raven was a blacksmith and armourer and general fixer. Of the Danes way back, he was on this particular escapade to help out his friend, and see a bit of the world.

Anyway B. and he were hanging out one day — it was late summer, and the fiery sun still had a bit of sting, as they gulped a mug of tea and jawed outside the old smithy by the river.

Bron’s hoss, known as Jigger, was having new shoes done. A massive horse, in fact a cross between the local fell breed, a shire with a bit of Arab and a cob, she sloped in the shade of the shoeing shed, flanks heaving gently as she nibbled at some delicacies of cow parsley, new hay and young apples, winnowing and cooing quietly to herself.

B. goes: ‘Oi matey, you comin’ in this here ‘venture or wot? Fair play if’n you ain’t and fair does if you does, init!’
‘Dang right i is’, Raven rejoined, as he drained the mug and picked up his hammer. ‘Albeit you’ve ‘n’ ticened me wit yorn sly ways, yer guilded flanks an’ ee bonnie oh so bonnie lassie ways. Oh who can a feller dey, whenet he likens such nicens as yea?’

He smiled a broad yet dark smile, brushing iron filings off his curling lip and flipping the hammer in the air while whistling tween his tooth gap and winking at B.

B looked across the yard at him, an ironic sneer hovered in the air. Then she up-sprang suddenly, twirled in an exuberance of vitality, passed her hand across the fragrant weeds which grew in abundance thereabouts and leaping lithely onto yon horses back she shouted - ‘let’s set off tomorrow then’ ‘ fetch enough gear- the two full suits of armour, the leather bootees, all the old chain mail - oh and enough swords and shit - it may get a bit hairy down there ha ha!’ This last as she cantered across the ford int river, ‘I’ll si thee tomorra chap and dinnae forget te tell all tothers. See if they want a part or maybe no part in this here, right-here-now number one trip - all expenses paid, everyone gets an equal share in the booty, all grub laid on, tents provided, horses and carts, weapons, wine and mead (long as we can buy it local) plus full indemnity against blight, poisoning, attacks, esp Saracen attacks! Gout, pox, errr and any other stuff’.
And with that she was gone.

Solid gone, Raven quipped while he chucked his overalls in the smithy and laced up his yellow leather boots. ‘Feck, wot I gone and done now’ he chuckled as he leaped the dry stone wall and headed for the house proper.

Later that week the retinue could be seen standing on the shore chatting with a captain discussing rates for passage to London.

‘Thas nevent tekkin yon hosses and t’like caravan on thon ship! T’ll capsize and t’drowned us all’

To which B. Merely sang out ladida and fetched a ducet from her bodice which she brandished right under Cap’n Hook’s massive conk ‘liken ducets do yea?’ 

The captain immediately sent them on board, the gangplank creaking and Bron’s mare sidling sideways eyes rolling but managed it without a fall or throwing B. Into the choppy waves.

The barque scudded past St Bees Head at a good few knots and Raven leaned across the quarter deck rail and grinned, crossed himself twice then spat in the brine, grin turning to grimace as his mind turned inward and he pictured the travails so soon to come...


The drawing shows an idea for a sort of telepathic shield 

Sent from my spyphone

Sent from my spyphone 

Sent from my spyphone 
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