There was a whole gang of them, ten, at least. Children of the scruffy sort, who looked as though they hadn't seen a bath in days. That did not stop the obvious joy on their faces as they engaged in play.
Play, in this case, was a full-fledged battle between four boys, whilst the rest gathered tightly around, and cheered, some even interfering where they could, though that earned them more than a few cuffs from their peers.
Wooden axes, three, and a single wooden sword. They looked well crafted. Vol would have been pleased to have any of them if he was their age. He supposed that's the kind of quality you found in a town where the main profession involved a heavy amount of carpentry. Making the likes of a child's axe likely was an easy task.
Even though there didn't seem to be anyone supervising their little war, and it could quite easily have gotten out of hand with the vigour they were showing, somehow, the children managed to moderate themselves.
Vol saw an older boy land a particularly hard hit on a young kid with an axe. It clamped against his shoulder, and the others hurried in for a temporary time out. When it was judged that he couldn't continue, someone else eagerly wrestled the sword from his hand, and went to take his place.
Even with the harsh snow, and the relative darkness, they certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Their play was a little too near one of the taverns, though. Their youthful shouts were often interrupted by the drunken hollars of a man sent outside before he'd had his fill. Two of them were kicked out in the short moment that Vol stopped to watch.
The first of them cursed, slamming a fist into the door, only for a particularly burly woman to open it up and give him a fist back, chasing him on his way with a broom. He cursed some more, but relented, strolling back up the road, a bottle in hand, murmuring drunkenly to himself.
The next man shouted just the same, but when faced with the same threat of a broom and a fist, he quickly backed off.
"If you had the coin for it, you'd have your drink. Find yourself a job, Darren. Don't be expecting me to fill your cup without coin!" The woman shouted after him, as the man cursed to himself.
Unlike the man before him, this one came down the road in the opposite direction, towards where the crowd of children were busy playing, and towards the street corner where Vol had paused to watch.
The children hardly noticed his coming. His drunken sauntering and murmured curses were overwritten by the considerably more interesting battle that they were engaged in. A few of them had the sense to scarper out the way when he finally got close, but just as many didn't, and the man angrily ploughed through the middle of them.
"AWAY!" He shouted, swinging out with a closed fist at whatever body of flesh was nearest. It caught a kid to his side clean in the face, sending him off into the unshovelled snow on the roadside with a soft thump.
"Billy!" A girl cried in dismay, running after him. It was a particularly nasty hit. The boy lay still in the snow for a scary few moments, before he let out a groan.
The drunkard continued pushing his way through the crowd of playing children, oblivious. He was not a big man. Not for a Yarmdon. Even his arms were skinny, though he still had the swollen stomach typical of a drunk. A thoroughly unimpressive specimen, through and through. Every town had his sort – the type that seemed to have nothing going for them, who took that bitterness out on whatever was nearest him.
Another boy got too close, as he dodged out of the way of a wooden sword swing. He crashed into the side of a man. A vice-like grip – from the point of view of a child – was his reward. The man ran an aggressive arm around his neck, and snatched his wooden axe from his hand.
He grunted, acknowledging the weapon, before booting the kid away.
"Hey! That's mine!" The boy shouted after him.
"No, it ain't. Not if you can't get it back," the drunkard said with a slur, barely even turning to acknowledge the boy's existence.
"It's mine, I tell you! Give it back!" The boy shouted after him, angry. There was fear in his voice, but the loss of his axe stung far greater. From the state of his clothes, it was one of the few things that he had to be proud of.
The drunkard ignored him, swaying this way and that towards the end of the street, a bottle in one hand, and the axe in the other, as he pathetically tried a couple of practice swings with it, nearly falling over in the process.
In his lack of awareness, he did not notice Vol, as he stepped out into the street to intercept him, not until he'd almost walked straight into him.
"Eh? Whatdya want?" The man saw, as he craned his neck in an attempt to look up at Vol. He kept the same drunkish aggression that he'd used with the kids, though he lacked the confidence to assert it. He recognized the size difference between them, and likely felt the strength difference.
"Stay oudda my way," the man slurred, stepping off to the side and ducking his head, maintaining a shred of dignity as he went back into his drunken world.
Vol could see the children looking, watching their interaction. They'd paused their game and watched with defeated expressions as the axe was dragged further and further away, through no fault of their own.