Simple Minded [WIP]

[ChikenKannon]

[I'm currently out of country, I have about 20 minutes of free time in a day. Noone here speaks english and I don't have a blog but I wanted to write some ideas I had down.]

It's easy to be known as simple if you tend to keep to yourself. Even more so if you prefer to keep your head down and your focus on your work. "Never mind him. He's a bit simple." The older ranch hands would explain "They only keep him around because he gets paid in cider and bread." Then the group would chuckle and go about their work, passing on the harder work to the simple boy. Always last to work and last to bed, often simply staring off in the distance. Breathing slow and moving slower, the boy was not much more than an extra pair of hands.

The next morning the boy woke up early, the sun had not yet even considered cresting the trees. He picked up his tools, and accessories, counting them out as usual. But today one was missing, he blinked and counted them again as he was told. His face soured as the missing hammer was truely not where it should be.

"Problem..." he muttered.

He did not like problems, because where there was a problem there would be a mistake. And where there was one mistake, there would be more problems. Problems lead to stern lectures, and a thump behind the ear. But worse was the hushed words that came through thin walls late at night. It was impossible to make out more than the disappointment and the person they were directed at. Silencing a shiver the boy stepped out of the barn, made his way down the ladder and went off hoping that he could find the problematic hammer before anyone had noticed he had lost it. A last breathe of air before he stepped into the cow stalls. A bouquet of smells wafted around, dried grass, wet compost, fresh manure and blood; All routine.

"Gods be praised." The words muttered from his mouth before they were even considered by the space between his ears. There was the hammer, only the end of the handle stuck out of the droppings on the far side of the stall. Another day and it would have been hidden and shoveled out into the fields and lost for good. Twenty sets of eyes bore into him as he crossed the stall, each pleading for him to pick up the pitchfork and begin its work. The hammer came out of the pile covered in slush. A boring trek to the stream would have to happen before the days work began. Out the doors and off the beaten path.

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Incident Report

Suspect Name: Miller Steppechild
Suspect Description: Sunburnt face and arms, described as a bear of a boy. Missing several upper front teeth with a severe overbite on the remaining. Large hands with scarred palms.
Stands Accused Of: Section 9, paragraph 1, subparagraph 3~ The willful disobedience of all Imperial laws, edicts, and decrees is an act of lawlessness and will not be tolerated. Section 11, paragraph 3, subparagraph 1~ any act of defiance or disorderly behavior towards the Empire's military forces will not be tolerated.
Attending Guardsmen: Watch Captain Thomas Sommerson and Watchman Eric Sommerson

Citizen Marianne wife of Peters -owner of farm in Thuergor eastern border- returned home to find her husband and only son murdered in their beds. Farmhands reported seeing M. Steppechild heading South in the direction of Cear with a hammer in hand. The accused is wanted for crimes against the Empires Citiyens, be warned that he is known to be easily aggrivated and prone to violent outbursts.

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"Don't be stupid, boy. We just want to ask you a few questions, don't we Eric?" The Watch captain assures the Steppechild, who had finally turned around after it dawned on him that someone was talking to him. "About damned time. Just... just stay there, we're all friends here." Ice cold water splashes off the rocks and men covering up the sound of life waking in the surrounding forest. The two watchmen size up the farmhand. Leather apron, blank expression and a tight grip on the iron hammer, the claw being slowly rotated downwards.

"Nobody else has to get hurt. Put the hammer down and come with us." Orders came from the second watchman, who had begun to shift downstream as he fumbled with his truncheon's strap, the other hand relaxed and attempting to calm the boy. He reconsidered when the farmboy began to wind up the hammer, keeping his distance. "Don't be an idiot. You'll be eating your teeth for breakfast." The thought of bolting down the stream had not even crossed the boys mind. But the years of insults and abuse began to bubble to the surface and the freezing water was not cooling the steadily rising temper.

[More to come]

[ChikenKannon]

Warm moss covered stone held fast under his fingertips. The air was heavy with perspiration, figures huddled together in the cell; some standing others laying down in whatever available space there was. The boy felt his swollen face, straining to see past the bruises. He had remembered bringing his hammer down on the inside of the young ones elbow, then the captain had returned the favor smashing the truncheon sharply against his neck. His hand rubbed the sharp black bruise gingerly, he was not keen on recieving a second so allowed himself to fall. The working over came after and was intended to keep the Steppechild from even considering lashing out again.

A sharp ringing of metal on metal as the gaoler punctuatates his shouting. "HEY!" Staring at the armored guard as he repeated himself finally bringing himself out of the daze, "Boy, you're being transfere-" And the rest began to muddle as the ringing of the bars and the aching of his bruises lulled him back into a daydream. Something about being made an example, must be held accountable, show the people, something else. Before the gaoler finished the boy had already began laying down, his arms ached and figured that they were already going to kill him. Not much more trouble he could get into, he thought as the gaoler redoubled his barking.

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Fevered dreams bring sounds and sensations back as a distance memory. The harsh crack of the whip striking intermittenly in the thundering of hooves. Freezing rain pounds down on splintered wood box they called a carriage; nails stab viciously as the cart bucks back and forth. Screaming begins, the wagon lurches and the world spins. Awkward chains snap his wrists with dull cracks, the carriage battering his body as it tumbles end over end to the bowels of the earth. The nails catching mangy hair, ragged clothes and unwashed skin; tearing it all the same. Rain, mud flooded the room but escape was possible. Something had bent the bars of the door inwards sharply. Rebirth was at hand.

[Going farther, don't know if I'll have access to a computer. See you guys soon.]