He pulled the small box out from under his bunk, a small woollen blanket, several colourful drawings on a piece of parchment, and a few worn wooden bricks. The blanket, it was a gift from Webley’s uncle Osborn, clearly second hand. The drawings were a mixture of cheap inks and oils, clearly done by a child with no skill in using these materials, it was trivial why he still had them, possibly just as a reminder that he did, in fact, have a childhood. The bricks were of all shapes and sizes, painted with uniforms, faces, and weapons. The very toy soldiers he had played with on that night.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was still warm, the last golden streams of sunlight were passing over the windowsill. A cold plate of fish, corn, and bread was still set out neatly at the head of their small table; he hadn’t returned before dark again, still out with his so-called ‘friends’, they were nothing but a bad influence on Milo, nothing but drunken hooligans. A clumsy clattering at the door. He was back. The round door creaked open and the man himself staggered in, a half empty bottle in hand. A stench of ale and whiskey followed him like a shadow. His sleeves were scrunched up to his elbows, a small stain was barely visible through the wrinkles. His collar, as usual, was spiked up however the corners drooped slightly. He gazed ahead; his mind too drunk to focus on anything. Soft footsteps sounded from the pantry, Harana walked in and threw the cleaning rag she was using on a chair.
“Your dinna’s still here” she gestured to the table, “Just as last nigh’s was.”
He tilted his head upwards and to the side, barely registering his surroundings. He looked around the hall, a large round room, connecting a few of the more prominent rooms in the house. A large, nicely decorated rug lay in the centre, now covered in a bit of dirt, carelessly dragged in on Milo's boots. His eyes settled on the small child on the other end of the room behind his mother, a frustrated look crept across his face. Yet again, he's always where Milo doesn't want him to be.
"Kid, go to yer room." He sluggishly pointed, bottle still in hand, towards the child's bedroom, "Now!"
The small child picked up his toys and ran into his room, shutting the door behind him, his mother's eyes worryingly following him all the way before snapping back towards her husband. Milo scared the young boy, with his horrid looks and his foul tone. He ran by his bed and took out his soldiers in order to play his favourite game, battle of the midlands, where he plays a brave halfling warrior who kills the entire enemy army. Just as he was about to make a fatal blow on a giant, he heard shouting from next door, his parent's argument had begun to escalate, their voices rising. He gingerly cracked the door open, just enough for him to peer out of. Milo's arms were wildly flailing about, Harana had her arms defensively tucked close to her, her eyes were puffy with tears. A sharp, shout from his father, though not directed at him, sent him running back into his bed where he would hide until the morning. All he heard was a sharp crash of smashing glass and a soft whimper before everything fell silent.
The next morning, Webley woke early to the rattle of cartwheels, clopping of pony hooves, and shouting of commands, a strange sound for this particular time in this particular section of Dunreen. A sound that is usually only heard late at night around taverns and street corners. Around where they live is a quiet pedestrian zone, made for the housing of high political members, for ambassadors, kings, the mayor and his closest staff. But still, there was no denying that he was hearing it. A draft blew from under his door, and footsteps could be heard in the other room. Was it his parents? No. There were more. Five or ten feet, quietly crossing across the floor, back and forth, through sitting room, dining room, pantry, kitchen. There were people throughout the house. Someone softly knocked at the door, it slowly opened and a halfling man stepped through. A sheriff, adorned in their usual feathered, leather hat. The man closed the door quickly behind him, though still softly enough as to not make a sound. A sympathetic yet puzzled look was across the man's face, his mouth was open, yet no sound was coming out; he was clearly thinking hard of what he could say. Finally, he spoke.
"Look, Lad" he paused, "Yer gonna need to come with us fer a while...get yer stuff." His voice was somewhat stern, however it shook slightly, clearly he hadn't planned anything and was trying his hardest to convey something so complicated to something so simple and innocent. Webley just stared back, his eyes just like those of his mother's, he could not understand why this strange man was in his room, telling him to leave. Webley had so many questions in his mind: who is this man?, why does he want me to come with him?, what about breakfast?. Annoyed at the child's lack of response, the sheriff grabbed Webley and lifted him up into his arm. With his free hand, he pulled open the door and began the walk to the front door.
On his way out, Webley could see a group of around five people gathered around a spot in the kitchen. Through a gap between two halflings in long, yellow coats, He could just make out a white sheet of cloth on the floor, covering some kind of object. On of the halflings glanced behind them and, seeing Webley's face, quickly made an effort to fill in the gap and hide the cloth from the child's view. Outside of the house was a much larger crowd, of regular civilians, farmers and sheriffs alike; all sharing a similar look on their faces, that of bewilderment. Nothing like this had ever happened in Dunreen, let alone the parliamentary district. Two carts were lined up on the road, one sat empty, the other had a singular figure sitting slumped over. The figure turned its head and a horrible, slurred wail, rang from his mouth once his eyes landed on his child. It was Milo; the wreck of a man whose tone violently shifted from anger, to sadness, to terror, round and round in a loop of despair.
"That's my boy!", he shakily stood up from his seat before being pulled back down again by two sheriffs on either side of him, "He is mine!" His shrieks sent shivers down the spines of every man, woman and child who stood around the scene. Webley was carefully placed on the back of a cart, along with some hastily gathered clothes, snacks, and toys. The sheriff accompanied the small child all the way through the city, past the grand mansion of the Mayor, past the long parlimentary square, past the rows of tiled and thatched houses, past the market, and finally onto the dockyard. A halfling woman and human man stood waiting once Webley had arrived, behind them sat a grand schooner, better painted than any other he had seen before, and on its highest mast flew a crest that seemed somewhat familiar to Webley, it was the same crest that always hung above the doorways in those retched places his father always disappeared into, it was the crest of the Brewers' Guild.
