Hello readers! Before I begin I shall include all disclaimers here: I am simply borrowing many of the locations, characters, and other aspects of the book series. A few ideas are my own, but many evolved from the ideas of others.

with that out of the way- thank you in advance! I welcome any and all comments so please review to your hearts content. If you finish this chapter please let me know what you thought- good or bad or undecided. I look forward to reading them ^_^ I don't have a scheduled plan for updates, but I will do my best to post weekly. Believe it or not I wrote this out of boredom so this is all I've got so far. Can't wait to see where it goes ;)

And now, without further ado, I emplore you to enjoy Ranger's Apprentice: The Bard, the Thief, and the Ranger.

-Ardoa88

Winters were brutal in Caraway Fief. Unlike the small smattering of snowfall Castle Araluen received in the cold season, the various structures in the North-western Fief were bed down under mounds of the fine white powder. It was a wonder how the short, stocky buildings didn't cave in under the stress. Then again, the Fiefdom had been constructed with the mindset to withstand the Stormwhite's raging summer gales. Icicles hung from the rooftops and a steady chilling wind ensured that the inhabitants of the neighboring towns rarely emerged from their abodes without at least a half-dozen layers of furs on.

Yes, winters were harsh in Caraway Fief.

Nevertheless, it's occupants appeared as resilient as it's buildings; there was no shortage of bustle within the town walls as the sun rose high. The fishmongers stall was especially busy, selling mackerel, carp, tilapia and more to the locals. In the winter, game became scarce in the surrounding countryside, and oversea trade slowed to a crawl as rivers began to freeze over. During the peak of the cold season, the paths leading into town were made practically inaccessible by the weather: so it was no surprise that the local taproom was host to it's usual customers that evening while a snowstorm raged outside.

That is, until the door opened to admit a stranger clad in a thick brown cloak.

As the newcomer shut the door- cutting off the blast of frigid night air that had snaked in- he dusted some snow off of his shoulders before pulling the hood of his cloak down. The man sprouted a splendidly messy beard to compliment an equally ragged head of tawny brown hair. His nose was pink tipped and his eyes were red rimmed and weary from the storm. Although the newcomer held the guise of a famished and fatigued beggar, the glimmer in his eyes would suggest differently.

The man's shamrock green gaze took in the blazing fire that roared in the fireplace and the wary looks of the taprooms occupants as he hung up his cloak on the coat rack. As if oblivious to their animosity, the young man strode to the bar and plopped down on one of the stools with a relieved sigh. Strapped to his back was a strange, club-shaped package wrapped in leather, and a tiny, handheld crossbow hung at his waist.

Making a show of inspecting the room and it's silence, the man eventually looked back at the bartender, smiling easily as he said, "Well now, either you don't get many new faces nowadays or," the man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "the ale here is so fantastic they're shocked I'd have the nerve to take it from them."

There was a pause of silence before the room erupted into jovial hoots, and before long the regular customers had gone back to their menial conversations.

The bartender- an older gentleman with calloused hands and a warm smile-filled a mug and placed it before the visitor with a chuckle, "Best brew in town." He said.

"Only brew in town, y'mean." One of the patrons remarked, earning another round of laughter.

The bartender rolled his eyes, "Aye, Steven but that's never stopped yeh from drinkin' me dry."

The visitor's eyebrows rose questioningly, "Only? As in, one bar for the entire town? I've seen many strange things but nothing as absurd as a beer monopoly. One bar?" The bewilderment in the man's voice had an amused ring to it as he sipped the drink.

"Aye, well Hawkentown is a new addition to Caraway Fief. So's I haven't had much competition yet- not that I mind O'course."

"Of course." The visitor echoed with a nod.

"So where is it you hail from, friend?"

"Oh here and there," the man answered vaguely, "never stay long in one place, to tell you the truth."

The bartender frowned curiously, "A traveler, eh?"

"Oh I travel," the newcomer got a faraway look in his eye, "I've traversed mountains as big as Giants, crossed plains that stretch farther than the endless sea, and have been witness to more, much much more, than you could even fathom, my friend."

Now the bartender was no stranger to braggarts and boasters, many of whom were young trainees from the battleschool just up the way. But the newcomer spoke with an air about him that led the bartender to believe the stranger. "And does this well-travelled man have a name?" He prompted.

The question seemed to bring the man back to the present as he smiled, "Of course, where have my manners forsaken me?" He stuck out a hand, "Ebrommius Garrik, entertainer of men and frequenter of fine establishments such as your own."

The bartender shook the offered hand, struggling to pronounce the odd name "A pleasure, Ehbron-ome-"

With a light laugh, the man waved aside his struggle, "Folks call me Brom."

The bartender began wiping down some mugs as another bout of ale was distributed, "You say you're an entertainer?"

"Entertainer of men." Brom corrected, "I've learned that the ladies enjoy less of my wit than the menfolk." He flashed that easy smile again in a lighthearted manner, showing he was jesting, "But yes, by profession I am a wandering minstrel, a jongleur, a fool- as some would say."

The patron from earlier, Steven, overheard the declaration and turned, clapping Brom on the back. "Well then how abouts a song? Lord knows entertainment is a rarity in these parts." He admitted loudly.

There was a chorus of 'hear hear's and 'ditto's around the room as the locals turned and waited expectantly.

Brom held up his hands, "My friends, it has been a long day of travel and I am all but exhausted. However-" he continued, at the behest of the disappointed faces, "if it will please you I shall take up my lute for one quick hymn."

At the encouragement of the patrons, Brom carefully unwrapped his instrument, wasting a few minutes to tune the chords. The minstrel then cleared his throat and launched into song:

"O- What'll we do with a drunken sailor,

What'll we do with a drunken sailor,

What'll we do with a drunken sailor,

Earl-aye in the morning?"

Brom's voice was deep and sonorous as it rang around the room, the licks strung from the lute providing the perfect musical accompaniment to his tale. It was a well known song and the whole taproom joined in on the chorus, their muddled, off-key tones full of merriment:

"Way hay and up she rises,

Way hay and up she rises,

Way hay and up she rises,

Earl-aye in the mornin'."

Brom picked up the next verse with a solid thrum:

"Put him in bed with the captain's daughter,

Put him in bed with the captain's daughter,

Put him in bed with the captain's daughter,

Earl-aye in the morning."

The other customers joined in once more and the bar quickly became the most boisterous building in Hawkentown. The three other verses passed all too quickly and the chantry ended with one last thrum of the strings. At it's conclusion the bar patrons cheered and clapped, as if it was the best song they'd heard all season- which, to be fair, it probably was. Around the taproom there were calls for an encore but Brom shook his head.

"My friends you flatter me, but alas, my voice is shot from the cold. That song wouldn't have sounded as good as it did had you not done half the work for me." The occupants chuckled and Brom continued, "Tomorrow is another day, my friends. And I look forwards to spending it here in this fine establishment."

As Brom moved to pack up his instrument he noticed a handful of coins scattered in the bottom of the casing. Perhaps sparring a few days in Hawkentown would prove worthwhile, especially since the minstrel's purse was uncharacteristically empty as of late. With a small smile he pocketed the coins, dropping a few on the counter as payment as the bar returned to its usual drunken manner.

Brom took a long swig from his mug. "So," he said, "I've heard tell there's been some skirmishes up north. Trouble with the Pictians."

The bartender shrugged. "There's trouble afoot, aye. Though with bandits or the Picta's I couldn't say. The Battlemaster would know more about it than a lowly barkeep such as meself. 'E's the one sending troops and supplies up to Norgate." He looked up curiously, "Why the interest?"

Brom hid his thoughtful expression with a shrug of his own, "No special interest really, more of a business trip. Part of my talents lie in weaving heroic tales of bravery and courage and sacrifice." Brom took a long drink, "And crafting them based on firsthand experience proves most effective."

The bartender nodded knowingly, moving to open another barrel. At his absence, the minstrel fingered a thin silver band on his left index finger: It was embroidered with an intricate Celtic knot that culminated at a small leaf print.

"The Battlemaster, eh..."

The minstrel wasn't the only new arrival in Caraway Fief that evening. Sauntering up the snowy pass with the ease of remembrance was a shaggy, barrel-chested pony. It's rider wore a dark dappled cloak that was much too thin for the frigid temperatures. Horse and rider stopped at the crest of the road, overlooking the looming Caraway castle with it's mighty stone walls and the scattered lights from the surrounding villages.

The horse looked back at it's rider as if to ask, Well? Are we going in or not?

With a smile, the man seated astride the horse leaned over to pat it's neck. "Sorry Blaize," he said, "I was lost in reminiscence is all."

The horse snorted and shook snow from its mane, Then find yourself quickly, it's cold.

The man laughed softly, "That it is my friend, that it is." With those words horse and rider sauntered towards the gates.

Fin! Thanks for reading this far :D please, again, leave your comments- I value each and every one; and I plan to respond to any questions/requests you leave in the next chapter so let me know what you thought of chapter 1.

-Ardoa88