In Which Florian Recieves a House Call

January 1, 1158

That noise was getting quite annoying. Florian could deal with the occasional thud or bang, but there was no way he would be able to sleep through that frequent thumping. The sounds were disturbingly close together--either Goodwife Noth was awake and partaking in some form of activity that Florian preferred not to imagine her doing, or someone had broken in. If, by some ill fortune, it was the latter rather than the former, that meant that his children were very possibly at risk.

Not to mention, he wasn't going to get his beauty sleep if that noise continued for much longer.

He made his way to the bedroom door and cautiously stepped into the corridor. The sound was louder now, and much clearer--whoever it was had to be in the front room.

Oh God, what if it was some convict? Or a beggar? Or some whore giving him a booty call--Good Lord, what if it was the missing queen?

Well, whatever Florian had been expecting, he'd certainly been wrong.

"What in the hell...?"

It was a naked kid, jumping on the couch.

"Uh... what are you doing here? Who are you?"

The kid turned in mid-air, revealing a strange marking on his face, like some sort of tribal tattoo; either he was a young pagan from some local group of natives Florian hadn't known existed, or some little scamp running around with paint on his face.

"'Allo, Dovan-man!" he exclaimed. "Feel better?"

Surely the latter. "Look, I have two babies sleeping upstairs!" Florian hissed at him. "Can you keep it down?"

"Oh. Sorries."

The boy bounced a final time, then settled himself down on the couch--Florian made a mental note to tell Goodwife Noth to wash that particular cushion.

"You no 'member me, yes?" asked the child in his strange vernacular.

Florian raised an eyebrow. "Remember? When the hell did we meet? I think I'd remember some painted, nudist midget with God-awful grammar if I met one."

His visitor shrugged. "Thought sos." He then pointed to the other couch. "Sits."

Confused, Florian sat. "All right. Why are you here? What do you want?"

Maybe he was dreaming. That would have explained everything. Or maybe he was hallucinating--that or stark, raving mad.

"Squirms gone, yes?" the kid began; Florian could honestly say he had no idea what he was talking about.

"Uh... squirms?" he repeated, squinting slightly.

The boy began mimicking some sort of writhing movement with his finger. "Squirms. Dirt-eaters. Long, pink slimies. Tastes good in pies."

It suddenly occured to Florian that this brat was talking about his previous illness.

"Worms," he corrected the boy. "And what do you know about that anyway? Christ, can't a man suffer a life-threatening parasitical infestation around here without everybody and their dog knowing about it?"

The kid shrugged. "No knows. But I helpded you better, 'member?"

Florian shook his head; this feeling of stupor and oblivion was growing rather vexing. "No, I really think I would have remembered something like you..."

"Maybe you was 'lirious," the child reasoned matter-of-factually, "or hallucitating--but I helpded, promise! So I want know if you better, yes?"

The urge to make fun of the boy's language was becoming stronger by the sentence, but at this hour, Florian just wanted to sleep; he would have to get the kid out of the house soon.

"Yes, I'm better," he assured the youngster. "Thank you for asking. Now, go home."

Sighing, the boy propelled himself off the couch, his eyes closed in defeat. "Maybe that for betterest. I go home fast, yes? If Papa know I come here, maybe he eat my other kidney."

Florian's eyes bulged.

"Joke!" cackled the kid as he hurried outside. "Gull'ble, salty Dovans!"

The sky outside was growing fairly light--he remembered that the baron wanted to see him at dawn. Quickly, he calculated how much time he had before he had to be awake...

Damn kid. Damn naked, grammatically-challenged kid.

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