The Buck O'Bio

[DireMoose]

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In a quiet corner of Luiren where the hills rolls and the rivers run slow under the watchful eye of ancient oaks—In a home dug into a grassy hillside with a chimney that always smoked and an orchard that always bore fruit, there lived a Halfling. Buck, of the O'Brier clan.

The O’Briers were not warriors, nor lords, nor heroes of great song. They were hunters and tillers of the earth, keepers of old ways and older stories still, content with full bellies, warm hearths, and a life measured in quiet joys. And so Buck grew as all his kin did—barefoot in the fields, wind on his face, a sling always at hand.

Even as a boy, he could find the surest path through bramble and thicket, tell the coming of rain from the taste of the air, and strike a hare mid-bound without a second thought. It was a good life, simple and sweet, the kind that passes like a dream when one wakes to the hard years ahead.





*An older halfling with with a soldier's posture. His well-trimmed mustache frames a worn and tired face.
Tanned skin and faint scars hints at years of service on the road. A leather sling is loosely wrapped around his wrist,
always within reach. At his belt is a pouch full of pebbles, gently clacking against one another as he wanders barefoot.*

Buck was young when he first felt the weight of things, though not so young as to be careless, nor so old as to understand it fully. He had followed a stag deep into the autumn wood, its flank torn by an old wound, its steps slow and labored. It stood upon a ridge as the sun bled into the horizon, its breath coming shallow, its dark eyes holding the weary knowing of a beast at its journey’s end.

For a while, Buck sat beside it, listening. To the hush of the forest, to the wind shifting through the branches, to the distant calls of birds, solemn and knowing. The woods had borne witness to the passing of one of their own, and he, too, felt bound to silence.

That night, he dreamt of a black hound pacing the ridgeline, eyes shimmering like faded stars. It did not bare its fangs nor give chase—only watched, patient as the grave. Morning came with the uneasy sense that something had changed and from then on Buck spoke the old prayers with greater care, and whispered the names of the fallen with a newfound reverence.

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"Every soul leaves a weight behind. Some are but whispers, no more than dry leaves stirring in an autumn breeze.
But others—others settle like stones in your pockets, burdens you carry whether you like it or not."
- A saying amongst Vassals of the Black Hound​

Somewhere along the road, Buck found his way to the 3rd Pebblewatch, a company of old hands and sharp eyes, slingers and hunters who had once stood proud amongst the now-dismantled Luiren Loosers Battalion.

They were not an army, not anymore. Just a ragged band of mercenaries and wayfarers, folk who knew the weight of duty and the whistle of a slung pebble. He took to them like an old dog takes to a well-worn path, finding within the company a purpose and a calling.

They were a hard lot, fought true, ate well, and at the end of a long day, always made room by the fire. For years now, Buck travelled and served under their colours, trained hard and laughed harder still.

Now older and grumpier, O'Brier is quick to frown, reticent to changes, but steadfast once his mind is set. His prayers go to Arvoreen in battle and Urogalan when the dust settles, and he certainly never lets a meal go cold.

He does not dwell on the past, but he does not forget it either. And when the wind is still, and the world quiet, Buck swears he can still see the black hound, watching from over the hills...



*Sewn onto his beret, is an old embroidered soldier's patch displaying the numeral "III"
over a pile of pebbles, circled by laurel branches and a braided golden sling.*​

 

[DireMoose]

Arrived in Murann some days ago, though not to the muster I expected. Just three of us showed, looking about with the same measure of confusion. No officers. Not a one. No grand rally, no banners unfurled, no speeches nor orders passed down the line. Only us, standing in the damp morning air, waiting for direction that never came.

I suppose that leaves me in charge, for now. The notion doesn’t sit easy, but neither does standing idle while good folk look for leadership. If ever an officer comes stumbling in with papers and title, I’ll gladly yield the post. Until then, I’ll see to it that we’re more than a handful of strays with no sense of purpose.

Murann is a place of many folk, and there’s no shortage of halflings among them. Strong backs, sharp eyes—potential aplenty, should they have the stomach for soldiering. I’ve put out feelers, spoken to a few likely sorts. Some seem keen enough, others wary, but none turned tail outright. We’ll see what the coming tenday brings.

On to more pressing matters—food. For all Murann’s faults, it is no city to go hungry in. I’ve had meals these past days that near brought tears to my eyes. The fish stew from a tiny place in the docks. No grand name to remember, no great renown, but by the gods, the broth—deep and rich, kissed with saffron, thick with whitefish and mussels, with a crust of black bread on the side to drag through the dregs. I sopped up every last drop.

Then I had meat pies from a bakery ran by one of our kin, the scent of butter and sage drew me in. Flaky crust, crisp and golden, filled to bursting with lamb slow-cooked in its own fat, sweet onions, and a hint of something sharp—cider vinegar, perhaps. I bought one, then another, then a third for the road. It never made it past the next street.

And the honeyed figs from a little shop on the Cobblestone Way. Glazed in spiced syrup, still warm from the pan, served with a soft cheese spread on a bit of flatbread. I meant to savor them, truly I did, but gluttony is an old friend and I am not known to turn friends away.

If nothing else, Murann has filled my belly well. I’ll see if it has steel and heart enough to fill the ranks, too...

*Slow-cooked Lamb pie, with sweet onions and potatoes.*​

 

[DireMoose]

Sheela Peryroyl knows I have seen many woods on the road, but nothing like the Conclave’s grove. Imagine a place where trees grow as tall as towers, their trunks broad enough to fit a home, their canopies so thick and green that even the sun must ask permission to shine through. The air was cool and damp, scented with earth and leaf, and beneath every step the ground was soft, like walking upon a bed of moss.

The elves and the druids call this place sacred, and I could see why. Between the roots of the great trees stood ancient stones—menhirs draped in moss and crowned with ferns, their faces etched with runes so old the forest itself seemed to whisper their meanings. I felt the weight of years there, the kind of oldness that isn’t just age but also wisdom.

It was a fine thing, too, that I found company among the elves. Though their ways are quiet, they are not without mirth. We traded stories, and though my tales were of smaller folk and humbler deeds, they seemed well-received.

Most importantly, we dined beneath a canopy of leaves, with the cool evening air carrying the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat. The ribs, from a boar felled this very morning, were glazed with wild honey and herbs, and served with crisp salted potatoes and seared apples. Simple, filling and delicious.

"Ancient grooved stones, covered in moss and unknown symbols.
- This one reminds me of warm summer winds."

*Honey glazed boar ribs, served with
crisp potatoes and seared apples.*​