The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Brand Camp

"So, welcome to Brand Camp!" Lark gestured grandly. "Home to all the people who have nowhere else to go. You've already seen some of the lodging accommodations."

"Yes," Able said, "and why do you appear to have permanent accommodations if this place is meant to house fugitives?"

"Right, say half our force is fugitives and the rest volunteers, for a lazy estimate." Lark attempted to illustrate with his hands. "We also house volunteers prior to operations if need-be, and ahm...I am a frequent volunteer?"

"And this camp is the center for operations?" Able glanced around.

"Not necessarily, but about half our force is already here, so." Lark shrugged.

"Are you taking me to meet the leadership?"

"Camp manager." Lark pointed at Able by way of explication. "I guess that kind of makes him a commander, but really, most of us are without military experience and reluctant to adopt imperial practices, so we just call him the camp manager."

"How does he manage discipline if that is the overall attitude?"

"He doesn't," Red put in mildly.

"It's just a word." Lark bristled at her. "We don't fancy sounding like Larbants and, for many of us, Dagobari either, that's all."

Red made no reply, but Able still felt it safest to ask nothing more.

All the shelters had been simple ridge tents, but as they now rounded a group of these Able could see a large pole marquee in a dip below where they stood. One side stood on poles while the other was tied to the largest tree in the whole of the grove. Lark skipped down the narrow path to it, while Able took his time with his knee.

The interior was already crowded with seven people before they added their three. Three makeshift tables of split logs were set up with more logs serving as chairs. A graying man with baggy eyes sat behind the largest of these tables at the far end of the tent flipping through a ledger and discussing something with two women standing before it. Three red-haired men who looked related to each other sat at the table nearest the door and appeared to be making calculations. At the final table sat a woman with remarkably long white-blond hair reading a book and eating a sandwich, periodically giving bits of it to the raven perched on her shoulder.

Behind her, a fairly lifelike charcoal drawing of a bear was sketched onto the smooth gray bark of the great tree. The quartz fragments that were pressed into its nose, ears, and claws shone from the flickering light of a dozen candles below. These were melted into place on a log stump directly below the drawing and were accompanied by fruit, biscuits, small wrapped packages, and tiny carved trinkets of wood and bone. Most were shoddy work, but a couple were impressive in their detail.

The trio stood in the center of the tent like decorative objects themselves until the two women ahead of them finished their discussion with the camp manager and turned to go. As they sidled past, the first one reached up and poked Lark's nose.

"Meep," she said as she tried to keep a straight face. Lark certainly couldn't, and he turned his hands over incredulously at her as she carried on then shook his head while laughing.

The second woman was content to simply put her hand on his arm. "It's good to see you on your feet again."

"Thanks." He smiled at her, then moved closer to the large table. "So, I brought Houser." He began pointing people out. "Able, this is our camp manager, Brave Edgewood. And this is our quartermaster Peaceful Leftbough and his sons Journey and Progress. And this is Raven Longfield, communications officer."