1 Hunting Rabbit

Running, I can do. Not fast running, not particularly, but I can run long and far, Parì to Lundoon, keeping a steady pace. Now that's no overreaction. I once jogged the Chanel at Winterfest, when the Marshes were as iced over as they were going to get when still land- bound. The Stepper behind me was clearly not well adapted to running, horseback riding was their strong suit, and he had no horse, much to his regret, I suspect. The Dogger Banks were not flat plains, nor were they sloping hills or even the dry cold mountains they knew so well, they were wet, muddy, and bone achingly difficult to maneuvre in, so they would have released their steeds when they saw me, as they would've been more hindrance than help in this hellhole. Another advantage of mine was their lack of bows, the environment was too treacherous and taking your mind off your feet while running would result in bad things, as one of the Steppers a while back will tell you, but he has a neck twisted 180°, and anyway, you can't get a good shot in this terrain.

When I was only six summers old, the Shaman would gather us all round his Wych flame, and tell us stories of the lands we roamed; the Banks, Francia and Old Isle being his favourites. Long ago, he would say, the Old Isle was no isle, just a splash of land painted onto the landscape of the continent like an afterthought: connected, yet barren and cold.

It was a wild land of warring biomes, a rabid fight between tundra and forest, lichen and oak. Seeing the misery connection was causing the long forgotten people of that peninsula, the Dogger was submerged by Old Father Thames, who in a huge breath, burst open the banks of his river to isolate his kingdom and protect it from unwelcome Jarls and Dukes, and pulled the sea to his doorstep, a hostile slate grey emptiness that bit at your feet like a viper. But Shaman being Shaman, he would always give it a little twist. He would weave the story into his fire, making it dance and do as he asked, the flame forming Old Father Thames, his magnificent beard and perpetually grumpy face. He always split his stories in two, did Shaman. He would tell us how Thames disconnected Old Isle, and then a week later would tell us how he reconnected it, and so out of respect for him, I will do the same. You won't hear the rest from me no matter how many times you ask. I speak when I want to.

He was losing ground on me, slipping constantly and the sound of his rattling breaths was retreating rapidly. Good, I might win this one, I hadn't won many of them, but maybe this was different, maybe this time I wouldn't have to dislocate my wrists and pretend to be a leper to escape a camp... Sorry, got a little personal there. But something was off. His pounding footsteps had stopped, his breaths fading too fast, almost like... he had halted? No, that was impossible. They had been tracking me for months, so why give up now? I stole a furtive look back, only half a second, I by no means, wanted to be trapped, tricked, or god forbid, hornswoggled.

I immediately regretted my decision. It's one thing to be chased by a mad bastard with more ways to kill you than a mountain has rocks, but it's quite another to finally know the way you're going to die. I had wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, I wanted to die funny, squashed between a warhorse's thighs for a bet, perhaps, even roping myself to the deck of a solid gold ship as it sank, and uttering the oh so famous last words; "Fuck you, God". Roasted alive by an Ifrit is not what I meant when I said blaze of glory. He was very obviously and slowly bringing a flame to his throat, probably to scare me, the bastard, but he had clearly never heard the name... Espin!That didn't even sound cool in my head. As I dashingly turned to face him, readying myself for some "Mano y Fucking Death Beam", as those in Castella call it, I bravely tripped on a loose root, and heroically felt my balls collide with a particularly round and smooth stone as I fell. Please. Please. No applause.

Well, I was going to shut my eyes for this part, I didn't really want to see my hands turn into candle wax, but if my eyes popped first, I guess I wouldn't have to, it was a win-win situation. I prepared myself for the scorching heat, and whimpered a little, I'm not ashamed to share... but it never came. All I can hear is birdsong, running water from the stream just downhill from me, crunching leaves, and... oh fuck, a voice. "Well, well, well Mr. Jac. Whilst that was vere funne to watch, A'm going to need you to get the fuck up now and stop whinin' about that sad little sack down unde'." The man's once was heavily accented and northern, from the wide open Dale's and Moors at the North of Old Island Briton. I shot up like a rocket, blushing violently and dusting off my tunic. In front of me was a man dressed entirely in some of the weirdest clothes I had ever seen. His lazy mop of greying brown hair was covered by a green tricorn, and he wore a frilly white shirt marred by what did appear to be a maroon dressing gown with gold lining. On his legs were a pair of enormously baggy patchwork trousers, seemingly an Eastern style, but none of those crimes against fashion came close to his worst offender. His shoes were pointy, and pink, like a leprichorn, but there were holes in them where his toes poked out like moles in the Château du Versalles Gardens.

"Now who the fuck are you twinkletoes?" I questioned in my most polite and serviceable manner. Twinkletoes apparently did not appreciate that name. His already wide smile widened, but his eyes grew darker and narrower, as he conjured up a long stag headed cane seemingly out of nowhere, and quick as a flash, struck my chin with it, holding me in place with a blade on the end of the stick. "I'm sorry a' must have misheard you m'boy, because I thought I just heard you mention summat that shouldn't be mentioned. D'you understand lad? Or s'there a need f'r a hole to be dug in that pretty little skull o' yours?"