A crow sat poised upon the windowsill and rhythmically tapped its beak against the foggy window, gleaming a dark obsidian in the dusk-dawn. It was long before the first cock crowed in Bree. But from the hut along the Greenway shone a dim light. Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth - and faint, velvet smoke streaked into the starlit sky. The window opened to the song of cold, creaking hinges and the crow’s fluttering wings. The black bird croaked and scooted inside the kitchen, perching itself on the mantelpiece.
A flicker of mirth shone in Flent’s eyes, contradicting his unyielding appearance. A smile curled his lips - almost entirely veiled by his moustache and beard. Various items were scattered across the hut - laid out on tables, chairs, and the cobblestone floor. Bundles of dried marshland herbs, phials and pouches, and all sorts of equipment he had assembled over the years. Many of these tools had become an extension of his being - like the foreign, curved dagger that he meticulously honed to a sharp edge.
A blacked-iron pot was stirred by the hearth - inside simmered a slurry of grain, berries, and minnows. The fowler was busy preparing provisions for the journey into the marshes, but found himself apologizing for the delayed breakfast to his feathered companion. The crow had learned to be patient - but knew he would have to share his scraps with the other animals that lived in and around this humble abode.
Flent’s hut was a place of curious harmony - where the wild and the domesticated found their home. A touch chaotic perhaps, but all done with the kindest of intentions. Being an outcast - voluntarily-like - he never quite fitted in with the townsfolk. Often ridiculed for his strange ways and peculiar speech, he found solace in the company of creatures other than Man - especially the misfits and runts. He felt a tender kinship with the animals - and it showed.
From the corner of the room limped a mangy fox, rumbling at the cawing bird that just came in. Not far behind darted a ferret against the door with a dull thud.
“Oh, watch out…” Flent groaned, picking up the nimble beast whose eyes bore grey clouds - blind. As though the crow’s entrance had awoken a whole menagerie of animals, a waddling goose strutted through the open back door - its neck craned solemnly, as if demanding food.
In the midst of the disarray, atop Flent’s only good chair, sat an orange tomcat - haughtily licking its paws.
“I am in a hurry, friends...” the trapper said - his tone soft and contrite.
In-between the packing, he tossed a handful of grain toward the goose, scattered a few strips of dried fish for the fox and cat to bicker over, and gently placed some self-made mash of meat, liver, and insect at the improvised burrow of the blind ferret - which he then carefully put down to find his breakfast. He moved routinely - but never out of duty. No, this was sheer affection.
As the animals ate - and other uninvited rodents moved to find some leftovers - Flent continued to move with quiet purpose in the early hours of the morning. Gathering the remaining provisions for their quest, he organized his pack to the melody of songbirds declaring the day.
He ladled the thick, steaming pottage from the iron pot into a lidded travel tin – and wrapped it mindfully in cloth to preserve the warmth. Around it, in separate bags, he packed strips of smoked eel, waybread and cheese in wax paper, and dried meadowsweet root - binding their fibrous lengths in willowtwine. Good for cold come nightfall.
He also fitted several jars of honey from his beehives into the pack - souvenirs for his guests and easy energy for when the legs grow jittery.
Then came daybreak - and the fowler set out for Bree-town to meet his companions...
