During the road between the carpenter and the other people, Sionag askes to the companion :
"Should you ask them if we can see the corpse, ideally without peasants around ? It can reveal precious informations about the beast..."
«Fletching, somwhere,» says the carpenter pointing over his shoulder. «I think,» he adds.
When Turold moves on, he finds two men in their late teens, one leaning over a table with feathers and half-made arrows, the other watching, and talking. «We should have some a little longer and lighter too. Long range, you know; we do not want to get to near to the beast.» The other is entirely focused on the fletching, and does not respond. Two spears, six feet long are leaned up towards the cottage wall behind them.
"Bloody Botwulf? Are you planning to hunt that beast I heard of by any chance? My name's Turold. Cynebald told me you knew about that dangerous beast who killed a man. He didn't tell me you had the guts to go after it." He offers a hand to shake.
«Bloody?» blurts out the man standing and talking, turning towards Turold with angry face. «I am Botwulf. Are you bloody picking a bloody fight?» He does not look particularly strong, but he does look angry enough for a fight, as he looks at Turold, gauging the opposition.
The other man looks at whoever is behind Turold¹. «Just call him Botwulf. And what is this about Cynebald? Is he speaking to the dead² now, your companion?»
¹ Whoever posts first can choose to be the one. Could be Iago the Welsh grog.
² Please let it ride; it is perfectly understandable that the overly brief answers from the carpenter were misunderstood, and maybe there is something with the Yorkshire accent.
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"Botwulf it is." Turold makes appeasing gestures, trying to make it clear he didn't want to offend. "Cynebald is the dead man? Apologies, I thought the carpenter was introducing himself. He wasn't too talkative, his emotions close to the surface, as he built the coffin."
«The bloody carpenter? Is he still angry?» hisses Botwulf. «What has he bloody said about me now?»
Ignoring Turold, the fletcher comments, whispering to the party behind, «Pæga blames Botwulf for the death of his son. They have not spoken since they brought Cynebald back. We'll go and avenge him after the funeral.»
"Angry, perhaps, yes. I thought Bloody was your nickname, but maybe it was his way of expressing his anger at you. Or it's grief. He was too emotional to speak more than a few words at a time."
Betula remains quiet in the background allowing the mundanes to make a hash of things on their own.
Iago, a squarely built, shortish Welshman with a blunt face, stands behind Turold.
"'Tis a bad business, all this. What was it that got him out there? Wolf pack? One of the big cats?"
He shrugs.
"You could be leavin' the vengeance to us, could ye be doin'. We ain't no slouches when it comes to the hunt and takin' shite down that needs to be downed and dead down, mind ye."
Botwulf blushes and turns his away for a brief moment. when Iago first speaks; I suppose he speaks quite loudly as a habit.
The fletcher hushes him. «Sssh; please don't make a big thing about it. He was with the group breaking peat; it all started when they opened a new site. I wasn't there so I don't know, and those who do know do not like to talk about it.»
He waves at Iago to move closer, before he whispers so that nobody else hears.
«They should have given it up when the first worker was killed, or maybe even when Heard and Wine disappeared. They disappeared without a trace. Completely.»
Iago listens, brows furrowing with concern as Botwulf continues. He draws a cross on his forehead.
"You lost four already to it?" whispers Iago to Botwulf. "That's a bloody bad business, that is."
The shield grog glances over at Turold and then back to Betula before he continues.
"Can you show us where this new site be at? Close enough that we be findin' it easy enough? I'm of a mind that you'll be needin' help on this one. This here has a stink on it."
«Four?» sneers Botwulf. «Two we lost; that's true. Nobody knows what happened to the other two. Maybe they visit family up North. Why do you care? Stranger!»
"Ahh settle down, you. You was the one that said two and one and that other one.
Can't blame me for gettin' it messed up in me head," says Iago with a shrug.
"We be traveling for days from the Pennines, you know. We're strangers to everyone in these parts," chuckles Iago, "And that don't make us bad folk."
The grog frowns a bit.
"Making our way north, see. But it's slim pickin's for victuals, mind ye. Huntin' been keepin' us alive. That's why we'd be helpin' you. Help ourselves, see."
Sionag stays apart, letting grogs and companions do their works. All here seems too scary and she won't add their gift to this tension. She stays and listens the conversation.
Iago speaks Saxon with an obvious, Welsh accent. Botwulf stares at him, tilting his head suspiciously. «Strangers, yeah? I can hear that. Hunters, right? You think you can take on the monster of our bogs, stranger?» There is mockery in his voice, and he turns to the fletcher to ask, «what do you think, Fitch? Travel with strangers?»
Fitch speaks softly, almost whispering, «there is safety in numbers and no need for hard feelings. I think the Bog Boar may prove ... a challenge. Do you remember the tales of auntie Lou? The bog boar is not only a giant ferocious beast, but it can command a hoard of its kind too.»
"A horde of boars, eh? That sounds like trouble." Turold looks at his companions. "I guess we're a good sized group too..."
Iago frowns at Botwulf and then over at Fitch.
"Bog boar? Hoards? Sounds like an army of 'em." He gestures over at Turold.
"He's good at the trackin'. Tell me where this Bog is, and we'll do a little sneaky sneaky around to get the what's what. Then we figure out if its a boar war we're about."
«I have never seen the Bog Boar myself,» admits Fitch. «God knows I have hunted my share of boars, but the Black Boar is something different entirely. My grandfather's cousin met it once, when he went too far into the deep bogs. Big as bull it was, with fangs as large as ox horns. It only had to growl once before the cousin thought better of it and fled. Nobody knows where it rests.»
He glances at Botwulf, «we can show them where we found Cynebald and Garren, can we not? It can only help.»
Botwulf shrugs and mutters a non-committing «feel free».
«Not until after the funeral, though,» concludes Fitch, and glancing at the questioning faces, he adds, «tomorrow morning; the funeral that is.»
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Iago nods to the Fitch.
"We will meet you back here in the morning. After you have your funeral. We don't know your fallen so don't want to get in your way."
The grog then steps back to the traveling group.
"Maybe Finn could sing 'em some songs tonight? To honor their dead?"
"Of course. I have just the things" replies Finn