Chapter 2
Porran had traveled in a wide semi-circle since he left the horde camp. There was no way the stoat was going to find another woodpigeon tonight; the sounds of the other screaming foragers he had been with scared them all away. He thought of his fellow hordebeasts as shallow, numb-minded, and evil. Somehow, even though his mother had raised him in this exact horde, under the watchful eye of Vartun, and schooled in the way of bloodthirstiness and malice, the young vermin had never viewed the world as his peers had. He thought of other creatures as living beings, not target practice for his bow and arrows. He did not like to raid perfectly peaceful settlements just to find more riches. He did not think as the others had. He was not like the others. He did not like the others.
The only one he cared about was his mother. He had spent many a night wondering how she reared him, when there were so many dangerous beings living with her, in the same group, under the same cruel leader. He had gained a whole new respect for her, although she was indeed as evil as the others, as he mused alone. Ever since he gained this new respect, Porran had secretly admired her without the horde, Vartun, or even his mother knowing.
Along the way, he managed to dig up a few roots for his and his mother's supper. The full moon up above lighted his path as he hurried back to the vermin camp with food in paws. His stomach rumbled in protest, willing him to eat the roots now; however, Porran did not obey, stoically continuing to trot.
The moon was nearly at its zenith when the young stoat saw the first gleams of firelight twinkling on the horizon. He added speed to his paws, grunting slightly with the effort. In a few moments tendrils of smoke was visible above the fires, lifting up to nothingness as it touched the clouds looming low above.
On the fringe of the horde camp, Porran could see the withered form of his mother, bent double with age, sitting nearby a fire, alone. The other vermin generally avoided the old stoat, just because her son was more of a goody-goody than they preferred him to be. Porran shook his head in disgust, and came up to the old stoat.
"Oi, mum, I gots yer some roots to eat," he said, announcing his arrival. Without another word, he cast about for something to skewer the rations with. He settled for a thin piece of driftwood, and immediately cast the skewered vegetables over the fire. "Yew alright?"
Kedra, Porran's mother, cast a jaundiced eye about her son. Her lip curled up in a slight snarl as she spat into the fire. "Aye, I'm alright! Jist gettin' ignored by me mates again, that's all! Heck, why don't yer just go 'way an' wait for me t'be in one o' my bad moods, eh?"
Porran only grunted in reply, turning his face away so that Kedra could not see the hurt gleaming thickly in his eyes. He pulled the skewer from the fire and blew upon it. Once he was sure it was adequately cooled off, he passed it to his mother. "Awe, cummon mum, ye can't be so down in the dumps," he whimpered.
"Yah, try an' stop me." Kedra snatched the food away from her son, spat into the fire once more, and voraciously devoured the poorly-cooked roots.
Porran sighed heavily and stared into the bristling flames of fire. He knew that the old stoat hated him, but, for some reason, he could not detach himself from her. Sometimes he wondered if Kedra's life would be better if he were to leave the vermin horde for good. But then Vartun would probably go out after him. He knew the weasel's reputation for tracking; in fact, every creature who had heard of him would have definitely heard of his infamous ability. Although Vartun was corrupt, he was no idiot.
The stoat sighed heavily and tore his gaze from the fire, towards the Warlord's location. Through the heavy wisps of smoke meandering from nearby campfires, he could see the weasel's form, bent over the woodpigeon that was meant for Porran and his mother.
Porran found himself salivating as he stared at Vartun. Again, he averted his gaze, sweeping his eyes around at the horde. Most of them were asleep, and most of the remaining vermin were starting to nod off. Now that he thought about it, Porran had seen the Warlord's head bobbing rhythmically.
Stifling a yawn himself, he thought out the possibilities. If he were to steal out as soon as Vartun was fast asleep, then he could get a good distance before dawn the next morning. Of course, his mother would not go with him; that would be a sacrifice in itself, leaving his most cherished behind. And, as far as he knew, Kedra would not even notice her son was gone. In fact, she would be happy.
Porran rested his gaze on the old stoat. She was stretched out on the ground, snoring lightly. Her fangs still had bits of roots from her meager supper. Porran sighed, staring at her admiringly. At least she liked the horde life.
It was a good hour afterwards before Porran could hear Vartun snoring loudly from the opposite side of camp. His heart was heavy as he extinguished the fire he had been sitting at with a bucket of saltwater and gathered his things: a small scimitar, a carving knife, his black cloak and his belt. Thrusting the weapons into his belt, he donned his cloak and picked up a piece of driftwood. Then, backpedaling towards land, he scrubbed away his pawprints until he came away from the sands of the beaches.