Ol' Flint the Crow

A Sweet Goodbye and a Stormy Gale

"Wake up Mr. Samuel!" shouted Flint.

The minstrel felt the stinging pain of a sharp talon jabbing in between his ribs, awaking him instantaneously. Rubbing his aching side, Samuel, with his drooping eyelids, glared at the crow hovering over him.

"What?!" the flute player grunted as he looked around.

Taking in the surrounding, Samuel noticed that the boat was anchored to the shore as the icy waves crashed against its worn hull. A frozen chill was coming from the woods beyond the river bank, and the faint sight of a thin layer of snow covered the ground.

Squinting his eyes to see better in the early morning darkness, the flute player thought it strange; the snow began at a certain point from the rapids, arranged in a way that looked like someone had shoveled it together to keep any snowflakes from being out of place. It was packed together like a second shoreline, neat and orderly.

"Snow?" Samuel asked as he scratched his heavy head while it pointed upward at the cloudless night sky.

Flint nodded. "Yeah, it's going to be a little gusty closer into the center of the woods. However, once we get to the heart of the elf domain it'll warm up rather nicely. Time's wasting! I want to get there before the sunrise."

Yawning as he helped gather their supplies, Samuel noticed Miss Bleak's head was drooping as she took her part of the equipment. Her face was dead tired, and it seemed to the minstrel that she was wearier than he was.

The flute player swung the moderately heavy bag around his shoulders and heard a clang of steeling inside his bag. Shaking the backpack a few more times, Samuel realized it was the dead Duke's sword banging against the other provisions. He exhaled sadly as he tightened the bag to his back reluctantly.

Just then, Flint called out to the boatman. "Hobbs, I guess this is goodbye."

Limping forward to the sailor who was near the firmly fastened anchor, the bird waved his wing in a mildly friendly manner. "Might I suggest that you keep going down Nero Rapids for at least a good day. I rather not have Tabitha or the nobles capturing you. Be safe out there, got that?"

"I'll try," Hobbs muttered as he attempted to open one of the bottles of Bleak's family wine he had earned.

When the cork would not budge, the boater rubbed his face as he let out a depressed sigh from his parched lips.

Flint quickly took the bottle from him. With a swift trust of his pointy beak, he punctured the top and popped out the pesky stopper that kept the alcohol from flowing.

Giving the bird a kind smile, Hobbs took the wine bottle and lifted it up and made a toast to the crow. "To your health, Flint!"

Glancing for a second at the Bleak, Flint spoke to Hobbs again in a low voice. "Hey, I'm sorry things never worked out with her. Just remember Hobbs, you still have your youth. There's always something that can change in your life. I wish I could say the same for myself. However, I'm too stubborn and set in my ways." After the sailor gave the bird a big grin, Flint called out to Samuel and Bleak. "Time to go!"

Samuel waved goodbye to Hobbs and leaped from the ship to the shore causing the sword to jingle loudly. As his feet hit the dried up grass, he turned back, waiting for Flint and Bleak to depart.

Flint, with great difficulty, climbed on top of the boat rails. His movements were stiff and slow as he tottered on top of the old wood.

Seeing that the bird was having trouble, the minstrel extended out his arms to grab hold of the wounded animal so Flint would not have to hop to the hard ground.