“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."
The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur."I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.
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“Dull!” The waif stuck out their tongue quite rudely. “Nothing at all? You’re robbing me of half my wages, sir! Bandit indeed!” They rolled their head back on their shoulders. “‘Course I’m familiar with them! They’re lot are the only ones out here with anything to pay with! The Straw-Heads sure aren’t worth more than the gold on their scalps… Won’t you at least tell the Dark Lord what you’d do to him, if he were here?“ Raza looked about at the tightening guard of rough men, all armed, all scarred from lives hard lived… ignoring this entirely, Raza made as if to shoo them away like stray children.
"Go on, leave some room! I came to see the lord of the hill here— the Head Wolf, not a pack of flyblown serfs. Get!” Making pleading eyes at Turin, the youth pouted. “Make them go away? They stink of piss and I only wanted to talk to you!”
“You’re a fine one to talk of stink!” Andróg, at Túrin’s left shoulder, spat on the earth and glowered at Raza. “You take money from the hands of orcs and traitors and dare to name us filth!”
Túrin’s arm snapped out, viper quick, and caught the fist that would otherwise have collided with Raza’s face.
"If you wish to speak, watch your tongue. You do not wander into the den of wolves, glorify those who hunt them, lay before them the pelts of their slaughtered kin and still expect a warm reception.” Túrin’s grey eyes were dark with supressed rage. “Say what you wish to say, and we shall part ways with no further upset.”
Raza watched the bandit’s outburst as a fox might, sizing up a dog on a chain whose bite is just out of reach. As Turin caught the fist that would have further flattened the youth’s pug nose, the merriment in Raza’s eyes only grew.
“Oh ho ho ho, a ballsy one! Terrific!” They clapped, biting their lip with a grin that only widened as the accusations flew. Soon they were giggling with mirth just as if the whole seething band of outlaws were a circus for their amusement.
“How gallant!” Raza sighed happily. “Though, I’ve heard you laid a few pelts before this lot, and were made their leader! A blond pelt at that!”
They stood awkwardly, tender on one foot, and swung the work of the last few minutes off one finger: a crown woven of the little red flowers that covered the hill top.
"It was worth the trip just to see you in the flesh, handsome Wolf… Even if your friends are rude and I’m out a coin." Raza tossed the crown at Turin, with a kiss blown behind it. "May you live a long, long life, Dread Helm."
The youth laughed cheerily, and turned to go.
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