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Return to the Mid-North (Far Cry Hold)
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Topic: Return to the Mid-North (Far Cry Hold)  (Read 546 times)

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on: March 02, 2018, 10:16:48 PM Return to the Mid-North (Far Cry Hold)

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Dutch Galaxy
[OOV Document 010 - Theman

This is the story of Theman’s herdbeast ‘drive’ up north (by ship) to assist the starving and impoverished holders.
Musical interludes are provided by:
(Doing quite a few this doc, because, well, because)
I am Cow  -By The Arrogant Worms:
The Last Saskatchewan Pirate - By Captain Tractor
The Girls of Neil’s Harbour - By McGinty
I’se the B’y - By Great Big Sea

The wine was good, full bodied with just a hint of the tart yet sweet stickleberry flavor which was it’s genesis. As the hearth fire crackled and popped with pleasant aromas of the aromatic herbs added to the diffuser above the flames, Theman relaxed in the padded chair, grateful to be on solid land, and warm, both at the same time. He reflected on the events which brought him to his oh, so comfortable easy chair up at Far Cry Hold. His faithful canine lay splayed at his feet, working a bone.

The herd was a welcome visitor to this hold which had lost three quarters of its people to ‘better times and climes’ down south. Theman knew the hold planned on the older uncles and aunties, the younger children and women - all the refugees, returning for the advent of spring planting and making ready the hold for summers actions. He hoped those plans would come to fruition. These were kind and generous people, they deserved a break.

The Harpers, both from the local hold and those who had accompanied the little fleet,  launched into another tune, this one a sprightly dance melody which had the seamen of the ships that bore the live cargo cavorting about like foolish apprentices.

Was it just a seven day ago that they were off the coast at Nag’s Head when their little convoy of three fast ships spied the strange sails? Lateen sails, his captain had called them. Ideal for sailing close to the wind as they were doing now to catch the little fleet.

Those were nail biting times, as the strange sails made better speed and crept ever closer, never bothering to answer inquisitive signals. They were going to catch us, and then what, Theman thought. They weren’t communicating. They weren’t fishing or cargo ships, for none of the usual accoutrements were visible on their decks. Just face after face of mean, sour looking people, underdressed for the weather conditions. And they were armed. Swords, spears, bow and arrow. Even clubs. They clearly meant no good once they would have caught up.

And catch they would have, if it weren’t for the lucky rendezvous with the Neil’s Harbour fishing boats. The added boats, and more importantly, good stout and strong folk, the new boats which both scared off the intruders and guided Theman’s little fleet past the small cot of Neil’s Harbour, just one or two coves to the northeast (or downeast as the captain called it for downwind and east) of the larger Sea’s Cry Seahold.

That river came to Theman as a surprise. He recalled the Captain’s words, “craft secret, me boy-o”, said with a grin and a wink. The river, now that they were safe from pursuers which saved several days walk with the beasts as the little ships were able to sail, and then row the ships - much to Theman’s surprise - to within a scant kilometer of Far Cry, on the other side of a low granite speckled hill just beginning to show the early signs of an early, and welcome, spring.  Indeed, they landed their beasts mere steps away from Far Cry’s winter paddocks, much to the relief of the cattle, goats, sheep and pigs which were overly tired of being cooped up in small pens, below in this strangely moving barn.

That night, they celebrated. The sailors and beast handlers together with the holders feasted the likes of which hadn’t been seen at this minor hold in many a turn. If it weren’t for the lack of children, and many of the women, save for the hearty ones who remained, it would have been gather like in joy. Instead, it was a study in loneliness. The loneliness of people separated by circumstance. The loneliness of people desperate to forget their loneliness, latching onto any excuse to smile, and for a time, forget their loneliness. The harpers struck up a last tune and song, something about building a boat, Thenan thought.

Theman felt at home.

Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate....
- Dutch

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