FireSweet

Moments of Morality

            The sun shone, the birds chirped, fat rabbits bolted from their holes as our softened footfalls startled them from their sleep.  It was a glorious day to be alive; dampened only by Briamy’s low spirits as she walked beside me.

            “Come on,” I urged her gently.  “You cannot be upset at me all morning.  Smile and be happy, you have been freed from your duties for the day.  Why do you still act as if this world is coming to its end?”

            She responded with silence, staring blankly ahead as she moved through the forest. 

            “Is there a reason you don’t want me to go to your camp and meet Carnie?”  I asked, determined to break the silence.

            “Captain,” Briamy said.

            “What Captain?” I asked.

            “Her name is CAPTAIN Carnie,” she snapped.  “She is a captain, my captain; ands should be addressed as such.  No one bothers to add her proper title anymore.  It sickens me.”

            Now I was the silent one; trying to remember a time I had ever heard a person say “Captain” Carnie.  No instance came to mind.  Briamy was right.

            I hung my head slightly.  “I’ll do better in the future,” I promised.

            Briamy beamed at me, but the look melted from her face in an instant, replaced by a look of terror.  As I watched her she went from looking at me to looking through me, the color draining from her face. 

            “Something’s wrong,” she whispered.  “We have to go, NOW!”

            Before I could open my mouth to ask Briamy had grabbed my wrist and began to drag me after her until I decided to run on my own.  She was frantic, darting around trees and kicking leaves up against my shins as I worked to keep up.  Her flight took us through the forest, bursting into a field of tilled soil a few minutes later. She did not pause to look around, but looked to the right and shouted “There!”

            A group of rogues were squared off with what must be the rest of Briamy’s crewmates.  The rogues were kicking something within their group, and the women were crying out, trying in vain to get past the wall of rapiers and retrieve what the rogues were kicking.  As we neared the scene I could see the women bristling, angrily brandishing their… shovels?

            The women were armed not with rapiers or other blades, but instead clutched an odd assortment of farm tools, shovels, rakes, hoes, and pitchforks.  Briamy ran straight into the group, working her way toward another black-haired woman.  I chose to turn to the rogues, drawing my dagger as I marched toward them.

            “What is going on here?” I demanded.

            The men snickered, one of them giving a savage kick to the object in their midst.

            “Now wouldn’t the wench like to know?” A rogue sneered.  “Such a pretty wench, with such a pretty pretty dagger, would you trade the dagger for it?”

            “For what?” I asked.  “What do you have?”

            The rogues laughed again, leering at me.  I saw Shorg and his friend among them, laughing at me, at the group of women beside me. 

            “And who are you to boss us around wench?  Another one of Carnie’s tag-a-longs?  Some wench who does not know her place?  Or do you fancy yourself a hero?”