“Oy, Dreefus!” The shout was the only warning, and it came too late to be of any true use. The yelp that followed was echoed by laughter from the rest of the men, used to the display of temper whenever the poor recruit tried to lighten the mood. Given the boy’s apparently never-ending optimism, it was a regular sight. Their leader hopping after the flung boot in mad bounds, red-faced and swearing, was worth the few minutes of wanton warbling. 

And as both men endured the amusement of their peers and subordinates, Commander Loric Rundall, or Lurch as he was known colloquially, grabbed his boot out of Dreefus’ hands and gave the lad a cuff for good measure before sending him off to get his crutches so he wouldn’t have to hop back. The cold bit fiercely at the lungs, and such exertion in the bitter air was bad for one’s health, he was sure of it, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made. He’d saved the ears of everyone else, put on a good show, and quieted the distraction before the dogs got too excited. 

Rough bluster and heavy hands were an ever present part of Rundall’s daily rituals, as was his permanent scowl. Yet while he didn’t smile, and certainly didn’t approve of insubordination, he didn’t mind making himself part of the entertainment. A leader who couldn’t take a good joke was a poor one, but so were those who let their men laugh at them. So, he sent a glare at anyone paused in their work for good measure, but didn’t expect he’d have to do much more. Of the 20 currently men beneath him, of which only ten were present (the other half of the unit having been left to set up a guard post on the warmer side of the gate), eight were veterans of several hunts, at least one of those beneath his command prior to this excursion. They’d gotten to know each other; they were unlikely to think less of him for making a spectacle. One of the younger men was on his second hunt and Dreefus, poor sod, was learning again and again that having only one leg didn’t stop his commander from moving quickly. 

The boy, to be fair, was somewhat slow-witted. Not stupid, no, the Church was not sympathetic to stupidity, rather, he saw the world differently than the rest of them and got his wires crossed sometimes. Not always useful on a dangerous mission, but he had the makings of a Gatefinder and could see some details even the sharpest among them missed. Lucky, some said. Blessed, the Church called it, and Rundall did, too. Though he often added nuisance under his breath. Singing! In this weather, and when they didn’t know where or what their quarry was yet. Coming from the Green Wold, all the rest of them knew it was likely to be dangerous. But there Dreefus was, singing like a… well, not a lark, maybe a rooster. Had the enthusiasm down, anyway.

Well, the boy needed experience in the field if he was going to learn, and even with his missing leg bearing witness to his mistakes, no one could say Commander Loric Rundall didn’t know what he was doing. 30 odd years and still mostly all in one piece was a good run. He was used to training the greenhorns. Not so well accustomed to training up the Gatefinders though, and as the youth, still a boy, really, came scurrying back with a face fit to guilt the dead and Rundall’s crutches hugged to his chest, the man sighed into his beard, grimacing at the ice collecting there. 

“Thank yeh, lad, now git on t’th’fire ‘fore yehr froze the rest th’way if yeh’ve fed th’lot naow.” He might need reminding of the basics more than most, but the kid still listened well enough, and looked after the dogs better than their mothers had when they were young. He might be needing to rethink his training strategies with this one, but old habits died hard. 

As he set the crutches under his arms and swung back to the chair he’d been using before the fuss, he raised his voice to carry over to the fire. “Eh Bart, ifen yehr finished there, Ah’d like a word.”