The filthy wretch had spent most of the morning seeking his self-chosen master. He had attained no success and gave up, as he was inclined to do with no one to guide him particularly and access to the pantry.
Old Stoat wandered into the farm cottage and hurled together a meal. Meat, bread, cheese and ale, in any order and in not the freshest of states. He picked the mould off the bread to begin with but such a delicate act bored him. He soon began to eat solidly regardless of the green fur that graced parts of the crust. He drank another draught of the bitter tasting, dark liquid: leaned back on the chair and belched loudly.
He could have done some farm work, but hard labour with no one to oversee him did not appeal that day. His head was carefully running over Bill's plan. A smile, such as it was, cracked across his dark countenance. He liked this plan. This was more his style than breaking his back in the fields.
He waited, cleaning his sharp little knife on the leg of his breeches. It was the only thing he took care of. The knife in its turn took care of him.
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Auriel
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