Stone's Throw

[Bethany]

"And Andreas," Beth prompts him, knowing it's true but wanting him to confirm it anyway.

[Carver Amell]

"Of course Andreas," he confirms. "But the little guy's tough. He's doing better than you are. At least, it seems so? He's eating enough, right?"

[Bethany]

"Happily and eagerly," Beth says with a small wince. "Thank Bastion and Ciren both for that Soothing Tiny Aches ritual. He doesn't have teeth, yet, but he acts like he does sometimes."

[Carver Amell]

"Good, good. That's how you know things are real wrong with  babies, I'm told.  A fever or they stop eating. So. He's doing great."

[Bethany]

"Listen to you," Beth says with obvious pride and affection. "All filled with Dad facts and such. It looks good on you," she finishes in a more somber tone.

[Carver Amell]

He rewards her with a rare blush. "I've, uh. I've been rather a pest to Seli recently."

[Bethany]

"Yeah? How so? And what brought that on?"

[Carver Amell]

He coughs a little. "Well, I wanted to be a good uncle, and I never had little siblings, so, you know. I started asking things. Well, Seli's got her little one, and her twins, and..."

[Bethany]

"You can be so, so sweet, ma'win." Stretching up, she kisses his cheek.

[Carver Amell]

He blushes deeper. "Just doing my duty. Now. Are you all set for bed?"

[Bethany]

"mmmmh... nope! We need a bedtime story," she says in full princess brat voice.

[Carver Amell]

Carver rolls his eyes. "Once upon a time," he says in a long-suffering voice. 

They're both asleep before the story ends. 

Fifteen years later

[Charon Tethras]

Charon no-name wakes, as he does every morning, on a horse blanket thrown over a pile of loose hay. The first thing he does every morning is a self-check, trying to make sure everything's where it should be, from his messy loose dark hair (kept short to keep bugs out of it) to his fluffy ears (checking for fleas and flea-bites, fleas are a particular misery for him) to his fluffy tail (checking for mange or sign of his fur falling out from malnutrition) to his oddly-shaped penis (which he definitely wasn't ever going to show another person again if he could help it, not after what happened that one time he took an ill-advised piss). 

Today's injuries: a bite on the skin he hopes is a mosquito, bruised ribs from being kicked by a horse three days ago, and that unexplained pain in his right knee he's been meaning to get to the bottom of. Oh, and the scar on his upper left arm is throbbing. That'd been an infected bite from a worker, one he'd not had the coin to be seen for until it was almost too late. It'd be great if he were paid in coin, but room and board is about all he can expect. After all, he's only fifteen, not seventeen, meaning he's a ward of Sweetwater placed with a foster family, not an itinerant farmhand who deserves to be paid in real wages. On the contrary, he was a source of income for foster family number seven: the city paid for his upkeep, and he was given a berth in the barn and two meals a day. 

His stomach growls, thinking about food. Last night he'd been given a bowl of stew for supper, which was lovely but not super filling; they'd run out of cornbread before he'd finished his evening chores, and the stew was cold by the time he'd eaten it, so now he's hungry again and there won't be any food until dinner at midday: likely an apple, some cheese, and a pickle. He'd trade the apple for more cheese if he could; fruit didn't seem to do much for him, leaving him with stomach pains and no real end to the hunger. The week he'd been fed nothing but pickles he'd nearly starved. 

The next thing Charon does is check over his meager store of possessions, things he'd managed to bring with him from foster family to foster family. His name was one; his original mother had raised him for three years, just long enough to learn his first name and a fear of strangers, before she'd died. One of his foster families had let slip that they'd nearly drowned him like a stray kitten before the city officials stepped in and sorted him out. He wasn't sure if it was true, but it might as well be. He wonders sometimes if he'd have grown up differently if his mother had lived. He doesn't remember her face anymore, which is just as well, since he'd probably be traumatized if he ran into the worker with her face somewhere in the fields, rotting away. 

His possessions include a small utility knife, useful for cutting his food and not much else; a small, shiny rock the girl he liked when he was 12 gave him; a tin whistle his best friend had given him; and a notebook he'd stolen years ago to keep as a diary. That he kept hidden in the hay; it was too nice for him to have bought it with pocket money, not that this family gave him any. Best not to let anyone know it's here. But diary time is evening, before bed, by the light of a small candle he'd pinched from the kitchen drawer. Not mornings. 

He washes in a little basin of rainwater, drying his fur carefully to avoid catching a cold. Then it's time for morning chores: feed the animals, milk the cow, collect eggs, brush out the dogs, let the horses out into the pasture. Today he gets the day off, which is exciting, as he's hoping to meet up with his best friend down at the riverbank for some fun and games. 

[Diligence]

"-lonufa-desu'ran-degolio-fa-si-desu'nelan'regau-ectos-"

The soft chanting that Charon is finally starting to understand at a deeper level than just mimicking the sounds hesitates for a split second before resuming with, "-iefos'renu'dos?"

Another brief pause, then a soft but very meaty crunching noise can be heard. "Oh Bastion's mercy that sounded gross. And not at all like the rise of a zombie mouse." Just as Charon is rounding the thick patch of reeds that secludes the small sandbar that he and his best friend often met at, he hears, "yup, that's a prematurely rotted ball of mouse-meat now. Clogged hearths, I thought I had it that time. Alright, if it's not iefos'renu'dos, then what is this line supposed to be?" 

Sitting on a carefully chosen and cleaned rock is a tiny reptile. At least, some if not many in the Sweetwater province of Held by the Jeweled Claw of His Resplendent Sky-King (or more commonly, Jewel Claw) would describe it thusly at first glance. Charon, of course, knows better than to even think such a thing. Diligence is perfectly sized for his age and species, the kobold would correct people if they dared call him tiny. Small, he'll allow, albeit begrudgingly, but tiny is just too far. Even if he's only two feet tall and weights a grain over a stone. Truth be told, the dark blue scaled young man is a touch scrawny for his age, though it's result of his academic bent than starvation or illness. 

At the moment, Diligence is performing an act Charon has seen a thousand times before; hunching over a well-worn book with his face pressed nearly against the pages. He has one hand-- he files his claws regularly ever since he was given his first caning for accidently nicking a teacher-- cupped over his left eye, while the right is squeezed firmly shut. He's also entirely oblivious to Charon's approach, which is also a common occurrence. The necromancer in training has very good ears, but when he's focused on his studies, a drunk orc in full plate could sneak up on him.

[Charon Tethras]

"Revu," corrects Charon without thinking about it. He plops down beside Dil, tail twitching, and yanks the book out of his best friend's hand. "Stop that, you'll ruin what sight you have left."

Dil doesn't read, not really: he can, if the print is large enough or raised off the page, but his ruined eyes aren't made for it. Charon isn't quite sure what went wrong with his bestie's eyesight, but it degenerated rapidly before they met. Charon has been helping him study ever since, in exchange for access to the texts he is denied as a farmer's brat instead of a proper student.

"How's it coming?"