This will be a Choose Your Own Adventure story, in which you OTTers get to vote to determine the outcome. I'll write out a series of events followed by a list of choices, from which the OTTers can vote. When I feel there are enough votes (or I get bored) I'll continue the story based on that assumption. Occasionally, there will be an Open Call (designated by the WHAT DO YOU DO? text). When that happens, you can throw out ideas for other OTTers to latch on to. It works like a vote unless, quite frankly, it doesn't make sense to me. At that point I'll scroll down the options in order of popularity (vis a vis votes).
Now, let us begin at the place all stories begin. The beginning.
It was a dark and stormy night a few weeks ago, but that's not really important right now is it, because tonight is a relatively clear night on an average evening in the town of Barridurn's Watch. The air is as still as it gets in a trade town and the night as pleasant as one might hope for in a peasant's house. There are, in all of Barridurn's Watch, only two significant occasions. First, there is a child being born in that peasant's house, that child being you. Even now you are screaming to wake the dead and lustily gulping your first sweet breaths of unaccustomly cold air. You are, in fact, the only new human being born into the population of Barridurn's Watch tonight.
The second thing is, quitely likely, the only reason the first thing is important. There has been an omen tonight. Not some silly old wive's note like ducks walking backwards either. No, this is actually quite notable and visual an omen. If you weren't a peasant (and good luck to you in your future servitude) magicians and soothsayers would be howling in the streets. But, quite likely it's still a world of muck shoveling for you. No worries though, life is random like that.
Anyways, the omen.
A) Watcher's Eye: The moon is being overshot by a brilliant comet, giving it the impression of a ancient luminous eye watching over the city and its people.
B) Bloodied Mountain: A nearby mountain in the Fang Range began to to boil over with lava for the first time in a century, bathing Barridurn's Watch in a red glow.
C) Angelic Host: At the street of temples seven statues of seven angels in various poses all moved into the same uniform salute and wept blood.
D) Nothing: Actually, it was a duck walking backwards. Some old washer woman saw it and proclaimed that all ducks should walk backwards henceforth. The duck quickly turned around a used her foot to relieve itself on.
D (is for duck)
I didn't read it, but I choose D for Duck as well. I like duckies.
Interesting. Keeping it omenless does indeed make it interesting.
I'll vote D as well. I want to see where that goes.
*Notes to steal C though at some point*
D it shall be then! The Duck Prophecy!
Your mother and father care for you for the next few years, often going hungry to feed your growing apetite. At the age of six your father first took you into the fields with him and had you mushing bugs that you found on the young cabbages and chasing small birds away from wheat and barley with a switch. It all seems rather fun to you and you're a bit confused as to why your father doesn't feel the same way. At the end of your first day you come home exhilirated and jovial while your father seems tired, though pleased with you. Through the long walk from the fields to the walls of Barridurn's Watch he lets you dash about, waving your switch at birds to protect the fields of other farmers, who shout Haloos and Thanks to you.
You are the hero of the fields!
Upon returning to your the door of your tiny, single room apartment, your father put a hand on your shoulder and smiled, "You're a farmer now, don't forget it." You rushed through the door to see your mother and tell her that you're a farmer, a fact which she rejoices with you, dancing about in circles in your tiny apartment. Following the short celebration she sits you down. Taking your pants and shirt she inspects them for holes, finding many.
"A farmer's other duty, child." She hands you a needle and thread, taking up some stitching upon which she also is working and sets herself down next to you. Your father makes some remark for which he earns a whack from your mother. Riding the excitment of having learned a whole profession in a single day (a profession that includes bug squishing and bird chasing no less!) you pour your childlike focus into the task at hand, frowning furiously. The needle is not so small, compared to yourself, and you thread it after only seven tries; twisting the thread to keep it in place. Your mother shows you, patiently, how to go about sewing the hole together in your pant kness and shirt elbows. As you pull the line tight the seem is obviously jagged and poorly stitched. Compared to your mother's work it's downright crude but the young woman is pleased with you, a smile radiating all over her face. "That will hold well my love, see how tight you tied the knot? Well done child of mine."
It is now growing dark, as it does early here, and your mother finishes stirring a stew in your one family pot. It tastes better today than it ever has before, perhaps because you feel you earned it. That night you dream of squishing bugs and chasing birds.
***
Another four years pass, four hardworking years. You have discovered that farming is not all squishing bugs and chasing birds, indeed much of it is backbreaking labor. Your youthful vigor has kept you better rested than your father, who is beginning to show signs of his age. When not in the fields with your father you learn the manners by which you could run a house, cooking, mending, and cleaning with your mother. But you are 10, and as you are nearing adulthood you accept these things with the same stoic resilliance as your parents.
At the door, on your tenth birthday, comes a knock. You look up from mending your worn breeches. Your mother moves to the door, as your father is away, and opens it. Standing before it is a well dressed man in good clothes that have never had need to be mended bearing a scroll. He asks your mother's name and, upon confirmation, simultaniously regards and dismisses you. In a bored tone he reads from the scroll, "The Duke has need of house servants. Your child is among those fortunate to be called to serve in the Keep for a period of one year, to be returned pending a review of their usefulness. You will be paid a remittance of three copper chonts a week until such a time as your child proves useful. They will be paid in food and lodging," he looks down his nose at your mother, intoning in a weary voice, "there really is quite a lot and none of it is very important, because you haven't got a choice. Do you actually want to hear the details?"
Looking shaken, your mother inquires as to whether you will be given leave to visit and if you might bid your father farewell. The man, over the course of deciding your fate, acknowledges that you will be allowed to see your father, as your presence is required at the gates of the keep on the morning tomorrow, and apathetically informs her that you will be granted leave at the whim of the Chamberlain who will almost certainly never take an interest in your wishes. After making a short inquiry as to your learned skills (mending, farming, cooking, and cleaning) he departs.
That evening is a tearful one, your father makes his way to the butcher's immediately after returning home for bits of bacon to stir into the evenings stew. Despite it being delicious, the meal sits unpleasantly in your stomach. Sleep is fitfull and on the morning your goodbyes are sorrowful. The time comes, however, that you must leave.
Do you:
A) You beg your parents not to send you to the Keep, asking them to hide you or pretend you ran off.
B) Stoically you hug each parent and march off to your fate, resigned.
C) Giving them each a big hug and distracting them with idle chatter, you pretend everything is alright and promise you'll visit.
D) Filled with a sense of adventure, you grin lopsidedly at your parents, bid them a fond farewell, and hurry off to the gate.
D: because whiny children are annoying. :P
*Nods like doctors do* "Mmm hmm, interesting, yes... mm hmmm..."
I'll go D again, as well.
I'll go E) Follows the stranger and asks him questions like "Are there other kids there?" and "Are any of them girls?"
I'll go E) Follows the stranger and asks him questions like "Are there other kids there?" and "Are any of them girls?"
I'll take that as a D, since it involves being interested about going rather than reticent.
Also, how do you know the character is a boy, hmmmm?
Even if the kid is a girl, the second question applies.
I just thought the kid should be a little more inquisitive. Most children that age are.
D it is, a sense of adventure, eh? Surely that won't come into play in the future!
Your arrival at the gate fills you with a sense of wonder and majesty. You'd seen the keep before, but only from far away. The keep at Barridurn's Watch, called Barridurn's Keep, is unlike anything you've encountered. Though tall for your age, the stone wall surrounding it is at least three four times your height and the gate at least twice as tall as yourself. The internal double doors are open now, so you can't get a good look at it, but the portcullis is down and obviously masterfully crafted. Each pole must be thick as your arm, but filigreed with ripe-berried vines. The adult guarding the gate doesn't seem to impressed by the portcullis, but maybe he's isn't feeling well. Even squishing bugs lost it's fun when you were ill. You seem to have drawn the gate guard's attention, as the man in snug fitting boiled leather looks down at you, "No handouts for beggers. Piss off." You relate the nature of your arrival to him at which point absolutely nothing changes but his words, "Fine, wait here for some'un to confirm you're welcome."
You spend much of the next two hours waiting with the surly guard. He has nothing kind to say to you, so you stop talking to him. Three more children arrive within an hour, sisters apparently, that keep mostly to themselves. Your pleasant demeanour and sense of adventure does loosen their tongues enough for you to get their names. Elsa, Rani, and Lamb Stone, Elsa and Rani are twins, though they don't look it, and Lamb is obviously their younger by a year. Each one has the same family nose, which is slightly hooked, and fine hair of which each has sports a different color. They are dressed only slightly better than you and bear obvious patches and mendings.
As you draw closer to your goal of getting a conversation out of them the bored man reappears behind the portcullis. You don't know how you didn't see him there, he looks quite imposing. "I see four of you have made it then. Very well, Fredrik, open the portcullis and summon a guardsman who can read. No, summon two so long as one can read, they'll need to collect the other three servants. Come along servants."
You and the sisters Stone look about for a moment before he emits a drawn out sigh, "You are no longer children, you are servants. Servants are less important than children, so do as you are told or you'll get a beating. I rather suspect it will be unpleasant for you. Now, come along." Undaunted by the threats of abuse, you march on, the sisters Stone trailing behind you even as you trail behind the bored man. As you cross the grounds of the keep he informs you that his name is Reginald and that he is the Head of Servants in the Duke's home. He informs you that you'll be living in the common house until your twelve, unless you're sent home for being useless. He stops at this point and turns around, giving each of you an serious look, "I would not advise uselessness to you. Those who frequently disappoint myself or the Chamberlain will find only the switch for comfort." His air of bordem returns as fast as it departed and the four of you are shown to the common house. There are fifteen beds here, though only three show signs of inhabitation. At the Head of Servant's command you leave your belongings there and are put immediately to work.
***
Six months pass with you on your knees, scrubbing endlessly dirty halls, mending torn cloth, scurrying about the kitchen at someones (anyones) bidding, and tending to a small garden beside the servants house, from which you and your fellow child-servants eat. The remaining three servants turn out to be a group of boys, each of them poorer than yourself. You begin to think your families life as freemen wasn't so bad. At least you had the land to work and, though the work here has been hard and you've missed your parents, you can't help but feel that this is a step up. The servants rarely go hungry and the common house is well maintained. You dearly hope the money from your labors has been of great assistance to your parents in your abcense.
The sisters Stone, yourself, and the three boys (Kale Yimsen, Haegr Gulrfsson, and Lump Nolastname) have become good friends. You spend your nights trading gossip about the house, which is always plentiful to those with ears, sharing stories about your raising, and playing whatever games you can think of. Each of you contributes to care of the garden which, having never been left to fallow, requires a great deal of work to make productive.
And it is on just such a night that you are standing watch over it against birds or rodents that would come in the night for the nearly ready to harvest goods. The air is cleaner than it is in the town and though you are downwinds of the stables it has become a tolerable scent. 'Neath the night sky you can see various constellations, though you don't know their names or their secrets, you can still invent your own images from the myriad of stars. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot movement.
Yes, definately movement, a furtive sort of darting that melts seemlessly into a oily smoothness. It is passing through your garden when the moon gives it shape. Or, at least, it gives it color. A pleasing dusty orange, mixed in with bits of white and black. At first, its lupine form gives you pause but you realize it is too small to be a wolf. You regard this development with interest, you've never seen a fox so close before and you know both the lord and lady have a love for it's fur. On the other hand, any animal is dangerous when threatened and you know that the first group to suffer a lack of eggs and chicken will be you and your cohort of servants. As you watch it, the fox's head turns and it regards you with it's green glowing eyes.
Do you?
A) Make loud noises and chase it off.
B) Lift the knobby branch beside you and beat it to death.
C) Calmly try to shoo the fox away.
D) Throw stones in it's direction, until it stops moving or runs off.
E) Nothing, it's not worth risking yourself over a few chickens. You don't like eggs that much anyways.
Question: has any of the gossip told of a fox as a pet? (ie. hunting etc)
if NO: B grab the stick and try to get the fur
if YES; C
What a delightful story
D
C. Show no fear and try to shoo the fox away. Maybe say a few kinds words to explain your actions.
If it's not someone's pet.
D
To my knowledge foxes have never been successfully raised as pets.
In the event of a tie... well... I'll flip a coin. Or roll 2d20 and see who gets a crit first.
D it is! Let he who is not a fox throw lots of stones.
From your sitting position you reach out and grasp a few stones in your left hand. The fox continues to stare, sniffing the air gently and holding dead still. Plucking the first of three stones from your left hand, you let fly with your right. The walnut sized stone zips through the garden, striking the fox on the side. Your second throw connects with its head even as it turns to flee, the last stone thumps off the side of its leg. The would be chicken-thief has collapsed, though in the moonlight you cannot tell whether or not it still lives. Listening to the other farmers tell of wounded animals lashing out at those nearby has given you caution enough to loose three more stones, two of which strike true, before you gather up your makeshift club and move slowly into the garden. The small orange animal is not moving, nor breathing, and an unpleasant smell wafts over you. Even in the moonlight you can see that your second throw dashed the fox's head. Pride surges through you, thick and heady.
You're no long just the Hero of the Fields; you're the Hero of the Chicken Coop. Not, you remind yourself, that the chickens will care. They're dirty, nasty, hateful creatures, but you've ensured that your comrades and yourself won't be hungry for a lack of eggs now.
Grabbing the dead animal by the scruff of its neck, you haul it away from the mess of blood and other unmentionables through the garden (careful to leave the crops undamaged) and toward the common house. Throwing the door open with as much gusto as you dare, you proclaim the events that lead to your great deed. Kale, Haegr, Lump, and the sisters Stone leap out of bed clamoring to see the fox. It really isn't much, a bit young or simply a runt, but there's no doubt as to your courage. However, no one is sure whether to awaken the Head of Servants (or perhaps as Lump suggests the Duke himself, given his fondness for the fur) or another adult to collect the creature. You settle on awakening huntsmaster who lives in a small hours near the kennels and has a reputation for kindness.
Between Haegr and yourself the fox is easily maneuvered to the Huntsmaster's door, where you rap loudly upon in. Your waiting is rewards with silence for some time, leaving you with the companionship of Haegr and the dead animal. Deciding who smells worse becomes a challenge for you. More time passes and Haegr, being a head taller than you and much stronger raps on the door himself. The sound is akin to a loud booming and is rewarded with virulent curses muffled by the thick door. The huntsman arrives, disheveled and beltless in his breeches. A sour look settles on his face when you come into his line of sight. "What could you damned children want of me at this late hour? Begone! Go, shoo err I set the dogs on you!" You interrupt his thick stream of threats with the fox. Some small side of sourness leaves his face, though not all of it. "Found a fox did you?" he inquires, to which you confirm you not only found it, but slew it with (as you exaggerate) a single stone's throw. The huntsman seems suitably impressed, considering your age, and takes the beast from you. He offers to pay you a piece of silver (silver!) but notes that you haven't a place to spend it. Instead he returns with a small bundle, a bemused look on his face, and comments as to how he came across this old trinket from his father, long before he came into the service of the Duke. You feverishly hope he will launch into a story, for his skill as a story-teller is renown amongst the servants, but instead he drops it into your hands and shuts the door.
Your excitement overflows as Haegr badgers you to open it and see what it is. In the pale light of the moon you unwrap the coarse burlap to see the glint of metal, perhaps silver, and little else. Haegr rushes ahead of you, his long legs carrying him brilliantly fast, and leaves you behind (though not by far). Nearly winded from your sprint, the door to the common house is already open for you, Kale holding the door and the sisters Stone chattering furiously with anticipation and guesses. Stepping into the fire-lit room, you move to the hearth before unwrapping your bundle. Dropping the cloth to the floor you find a dagger in your hand. Not a knife as your father used to cut bread, but a full fledged dagger.
The blade is short, though its grip is still somewhat large for your child's hand. Only one side is edged, the other being wide and flat. The handle curves slightly as an elk-horn handle might, but instead is steel flanked by lacquered wood. Engraved upon either side of the wood, in delicate silver etching, is an alert fox standing in a field of brambles. The huntsmaster must be a saint or a fool, for even such a small blade could fetch the worth of a gold piece or two. A richness you have never in your life held.
***
Six more months pass with you in the common house and you are subject to only two occurrences of note. Your fellow servants refer to you as Fox and you are deemed useful enough to stay on. You do, on the eve of Winter Solstice earn leave to visit your parents for a night. They are fairing well, due in large part to the coin you are earning (now a full eight copper chonts a week). The reunion is good and you fill them in on all the gossip and stories you have. Upon revealing the knife gifted to you by the Huntsmaster your parents light up with pride, for such a gift could not possibly be given lightly. Solstice comes and the reunion ends, though not as bitter sweet for even your parents can see the great adult you're becoming, dressed in the livery of a Duke's servant.
Two more years pass for you as the Fox. On your twelfth birthday you see your parents again, to celebrate your coming into adulthood. The night passes much like the last and you see your parents are much better off (they receive one silver and three copper chonts each week). Haegr has grown larger and been drafted by the Huntsmaster. Kale has shown a proficiency for numbers and serves as an aid to the Chancellor (an aid, not the aid). Lump is serves the smiths for while he is still simple, he has a great affinity for the working of metal that would not be thought possible for a lad with so little in his head. The sisters Stone are all handmaidens to the Duchess's daughter, who is but six years old and a tyrant.
For you, however, the future is less certain. More children have been brought in to serve the basic cleaning and fetching errands for which you were once responsible, the question then goes as to who shall claim you for an aid (or whether you'll be released to your parents once again). You stand before the Master of Servants who looks interestingly at you. "You're something of an enigma, Fox" he rolls the word out of his mouth in the only way you can imagine your nickname being used as an insult, "I haven't a claim for your service, and I haven't a reason to be rid of you. Much as I have wracked my inestimable mind, I cannot find anything in which you are greater or less than average..." he draws the words out slowly, tapping a forefinger on his chin, "so, I will have to assign you to someone that hasn't asked for an assistant or a servant. I won't take your opinion into account, but it might give me some line into whom you would most usefully serve." He stares at you for a moment, "quickly you nitwit, I'm asking who you want to work for. This has taken enough time and I'd much prefer to be done with it!" Irritation fades almost completely from his face as he awaits your opinion.
This is not something that happens often, perhaps you are fortunate. Then again, the Master of Servants is an unlikable fellow, and may simply choose the opposite of what you favor. Either way, you've got to pick or you'll find your hide switched.
Who do you name?
A) The Duke's cantankerous personal Soothsayer, who is rarely right about anything but food.
B) The Captain of the guard, a quiet woman with a tongue as sharp as her sword.
C) The Groundskeeper, who is so old he's stopped counting and somewhat senile.
D) The Duchess's personal 'wise-woman', whom the Duke would happily be rid of and for whom the feeling is mutual.
Upon choosing you will also be moved into the servants' quarters. Because pregnant servants do no good to anyone, you've got another choice to make.
Where do you go?
A) The men's' quarters, duh, I'm a man.
B) The women's' quarters, duh, I'm a woman.
C) The men's' quarters, I might get lucky!
D) The women's' quarters, I might get lucky!
I go for C and A (He's got a "ranger" feel about him)
edited: corrected (wrote something OTHER than what I meant)
I go for C and A (He's got a "ranger" feel about him)
edited: corrected (wrote something OTHER than what I meant)
Fruedian Slip, I'm sure. LOL.
I'm going with B to both. Because I think the character is a girl. She likes to sew and work in the garden. I admit killing the fox sounds somewhat boyish but the weakness with which she knocked on the door depicts she is either a girl or a pretty frail boy. Some who was filled with pride would bang on the door until someone acknowledged it. I think she will see herself as person of the same stripe as the Captain of the guard. Quiet and brave.
I think their should have been choices given when she visited home. You would think that the sheer monetary value of the dagger would cross the girls mind when she returned to the tiny farmhouse. She might even have considered giving the blade to her parents to sell because in her time as a servant she has seen many things in the keep of similar value and would like her parents to have such things too.
But I apologize. I'm not trying to write the story for you. And I sincerely hope you are not put off by my criticism. You're story is good enough to read and enjoy doing so.
I go for C and A (He's got a "ranger" feel about him)
edited: corrected (wrote something OTHER than what I meant)
Fruedian Slip, I'm sure. LOL.I'm going with B to both. Because I think the character is a girl. She likes to sew and work in the garden. I admit killing the fox sounds somewhat boyish but the weakness with which she knocked on the door depicts she is either a girl or a pretty frail boy. Some who was filled with pride would bang on the door until someone acknowledged it. I think she will see herself as person of the same stripe as the Captain of the guard. Quiet and brave.
The huntsmaster could also be a very heavy sleeper. Haegr is, after all, much bigger than the protagonist.
I think their should have been choices given when she visited home. You would think that the sheer monetary value of the dagger would cross the girls mind when she returned to the tiny farmhouse. She might even have considered giving the blade to her parents to sell because in her time as a servant she has seen many things in the keep of similar value and would like her parents to have such things too.
I considered it, that the protagonist might sell the dagger for their family or give it to them to sell. In the end, I decided that 1) The protagonist was looking forward to adventure when they left the home and 2) It has granted them a certain degree of status in the social strata of servants. If, perhaps, they had been more reticent to leave (Options A-C in the farewell post) it would have come up. But that's not the protagonist that the OTTers created.
But I apologize. I'm not trying to write the story for you. And I sincerely hope you are not put off by my criticism. You're story is good enough to read and enjoy doing so.
In the next episode, Idolis, the hideous traveling minstral is ravaged by the plague. Thinking himself doomed, he seeks healing in the forest only to be chased down by a family of angry grizzly bears. One brutal mauling and feigned death later he, believing it to finally be over, wearily pushes himself to his feet and is struck by a bolt of lightning. More to come.
Really though, no hard feelings.
C and D.
So, leaning in the direction of a male protagonist, yet his action is completely up in the air. Any vote (except for C) would tip the scales. I keenly await that vote.
Read it. C and B.
C and B it is! Much like the Bull Moose Party, the boy camp is divided and the girl camp wins!
Running his eyes over you the Master of Servants blesses you with a wry grin. He's going to say something that he thinks is insightful or clever at your expense now. "Yes, I suppose that makes sense doesn't it, a farmer working for the groundskeeper. Looking forward to scrabbling in the dirt your whole life then?" He tut-tuts as you begin to answer him and trots off, affirming that he thinks you are quite well suited to being the senile man's assistant. "Don't let him forget to breath," suffices as the man's goodbye as he mutters to himself about senility. You stand around for a bit until you realize he has no further interest in you. You suppose you probably ought to carry your things from the common house to the women's quarters, but no one's ordering you to move. It's a strange feeling.
You get on with it anyhow.
Returning to the common house you gather up your belongings: a pair of servant's uniforms emblazoned with the seal of the Duke, your silver etched dagger, two pair of socks, and some poor leather shoes. You are startled to see children, between eight and ten years of age, already inhabiting your friend's old rooms. Fear, the light and uncomfortable kind that arises from being thrust into a new situation is written on each of their faces to a degree. Individually you can read different emotions that overlay the fear: curiosity, wonder, trepidation, regret, and anxiety to name a few. Hefting your bundle, though it is small enough to fit under a single arm, you tousle one of the children's hair, the most anxious one. Calm words reassure them that it's not so bad and that their family will be better off for the pay. It doesn't help. You warn them fiercely to take care of the garden and decide that you may want to stop by to check on it once in a while.
Leaving the children to their fate you report to the women's quarters. Elsa and Lamb Stone are giddy with excitement to see you, dutifully informing you that Rani is with the Little Tyrant, for she requires the attention of at least one of them at all times. You claim the bed next to Elsa (who is next to Rani, who is next to Lamb, who is next to a window). The bed adjacent to yours is unclaimed, which suits you just fine. Two of the older women reside here, each one close to 18 and well developed. They take note of you and dismiss you in the same look (much as the Master of Servants did) and return to gossiping about the men's quarters.
You decide to attend to your apprenticeship in the morning.
***
Dressed in the livery of the Duke, you arrive at the small shed in which the groundskeeper resides. Supposedly, by servants' gossip, he was married to a woman that died of disease having yet to bear them any children. He is quite nearly the oldest person you've met, supposedly having reached a full sixty-five years of age. He looks at you ****ly for a minute before asking what you need.
Reporting for apprenticeship gets a rise out of him. He curses and spits vilely that he hasn't got a need for a nursemaid before he huffs off to the shed for his tools. Abandoned twice in as many days, you resolve to follow the groundskeeper about who, after an hour or three, calms down significantly. He mutters to each of the plants as he goes; encouraging them. "Green up, yew" and "Dun let 'em narsty beetles awl over yeh." He makes not eye contact with you, nor does he speak to you for the remainder of the day. He simply makes the rounds, tending first to the Duke's garden, then the Duchess's tea garden, the grounds in general, a break for what is truly a light lunch (consisting of one piece jerky and a slice of brown bread), returning to the Duke's garden at noon and the Duchess's tea garden shortly after. He takes you, or more accurately you follow him, into the great garden as the day draws to a close. His knowledge of the great hedge maze astounds you, for it is the Duke's pride. Servants traverse it, and know it far more intimately than most inhabitants of the keep, but the groundskeeper could have had his eyes closed. Indeed, a number of times you believe you caught him snoring as he walked.
He turns to you suddenly and demands to know who you are! Caught off guard you stammer your name. Suddenly indignant you forcefully remind him that you are his apprentice, assigned by the Master of Servants, and that he can call you Fox just like everyone else. If the aged man is taken aback by your outburst he doesn't show it, he looks rather a bit like a tree and, for a time being, you believe he's fallen asleep in the middle of your outrage.
Slowly, the old geezer nods and asks some general questions about you, actually getting to know you. He admits that his head isn't so good in the mornings, that you'd best come around noon for the next week or so until he can get used to having you around. He is genuinely likable at this moment, and chats lightly with out about farm crops and particular bugs you like to squish. He seems to hold a deep resentment of insects, but you reason that being a groundskeeper for fifty odd years would do that sort of thing to you. You talk of wheat and cabbage, barley and carrots, chasing birds (which he confesses to being far to old to do properly) and he, in turn, talks about proper scarecrows, which spiders to keep around and which to be rid of, the different animal families that live on the grounds (no mention of a fox), and a wide variety of interesting plants.
Pruning the hedge maze takes some time, but is quite pleasing to you. It is a calm sort of thing and an extension of your garden at the common house. You ask about the garden and he is heartily pleased to find out it was you that maintained it. It seems you've passed some sort of test for the old man as he really opens up now. He points to various things, becoming more animated as the day draws to a close. He offers that he can prune the hedge maze by moonlight but it might be best were you to return to your quarter's 'ere the night drew too close. He'd not like to have to come find you. Guiding you back to the entrance of the hedge maze he waves farewell, reminds you to come at noon, and disappears back into the corners and curves of the great maze.
You watch him go and are awarded by the sound of a light honk. Looking down you see a duck walk backwards up to you and deposit a dropping upon your shoe before waddling off at full speed. Making sure you remain unseen, you remove the shoe and wipe what you can on to one of the low branches and make your way back to the women's quarters.
You face an interesting dilemma. Apprenticed to the groundskeeper no one will call on your service, save the groundskeeper, unless the whole of the staff is required. That gives you leave to have the next few mornings to yourself entirely!
WHAT DO YOU DO with your free mornings?
I want to go find that duck. I don't know why, but I do. Silly ducky.
EDIT: I'd like to do so stealthily, if possible. More of a find and observe sort of thing.
Seconded. We must find this wierd duck. It could be dangerous.
spend time in the maze, learn the "feel" of it.
I ought to have been clearer. I meant "what do you do with your free mornings"
Although, I'll take finding the duck into consideration.
I meant searching for the duck during the down time myself. If that's a problem, I also like PBN's idea of playing in the maze. I bet we'd find cool stuff in there, too. Who knows? Maybe even a ducky! :P
EDIT: In other words, either of the two suggested courses of action (thus far) are agreeable to me. :D
The maze sounds interesting.
The damned duck pooped on her though. She killed a fox just for looking at her funny. She might want to find the duck to get revenge.
Decisions, decisions.
Can she do both? If not, then the maze is the way it should go.
Explore the maze by 1 then, who knows, maybe there's a duck pond in there. I confess, I thought more people would suggest trying to visit her parents.
For the next several mornings, you spend much time in the hedge maze and come, in time, to look ever forward to the evenings when the groundskeeper, whose name is Flint, will guide you through the hedge maze. You discover there is more to the maze than a simple assembly of bushes. His experience and insight shows you that there are many of, what you might call, 'hidden' passages. Many a corner turns into an optical illusion that make what appears to be a dead end less dead than it appears. Other bushes appear thick an impassible, but are naught but thing veneers over a hole in the wall; these passages would be invisible even if you could look over the wall (and you'd need to be fifteen feet tall to do that anyhow). In other places you can crawl through a tunnel of undergrowth, though these always lead someplace you can arrive at by other means and they're almost always slathered in spider webs. You morning are spent expanding your knowledge, looking for telltale signs that you never recognized before. Indeed, twice during these adventurous outings you've had to dart into a hidden passage to avoid the Duke, who you do not think would take kindly to servants playing in his hedge maze.
And then, in time, you come to believe something is amiss. Morning in and morning out you measure the maze's distance in paces, first on the outside and again on the in, only to be perplexed. It could simply be confusion, for you easily loose your bearing against the high walls twisted passages, but you believe the maze may be larger on the inside than on the out. Not that there have ever been such tales and no one's ever gone missing in the maze as they do in ancient forests and the like. You broach the subject to the groundskeeper, er, to Flint one afternoon. He smiles the same smile that your father smiled after your first day in the fields but dismisses the idea. "You're just getting turned around Fox, nothing to worry about."
Unconvinced, you press the issue, telling him just how many times you've measured it, both inside and out. He laughs at your certainty, for you are (to him) but a child. "You can't count paces in the maze young lady. It just can't be done." You demand to know why, to which he answers, not in so many words, that the maze itself changes. You must be showing your horror for his grin broadens. "Not like that Fox, I just don't trim it the same each time. These are fast growing plants you see and over the course of a week I change the landscape. I suppose, since you weren't aware of it, that it happens to slow to be noticed without keeping count. The Duke loves it, he views it as a challenge that returns him to the forests of his youth, but you didn't hear it from me. Still, he's never challenged me nor disciplined me for it. Maybe he likes to think its magic too."
Armed with this knowledge you prepare to explore more fully, keeping track of its changing designs, but it is that week that Flint rescinds his morning policy and binds you to him for the majority of the day. It's educational still, he knows more about the grounds than anyone else and you get to visit the Duke's and the Duchess's personal garden twice a day. Exotic plants adorn the place, to which Flint teaches you special methods of caring for them, including one plant that must be fed a small mouse once a month. You cannot fathom how expensive such a garden must be as Flint explains that the Duke and Duchess reserve most of their lavishness for the gardens. The rest of the wealth was all left by the previous Duke who took a great interest in the house and general possessions.
***
Years pass again, you're twelve no longer and you can't help but think that each year moves faster than the last. You've seen seven winter's since your arrival at Barridurn's Keep and you look to see many more. Your parents have ceased farming to sell the goods of other farmer's in the market. It is working out well for them and your remittance of six and a half silver chonts a week has done worlds of good for them. Your mother badgers you about finding a man and your father badgers you about grandchildren. They are reaching the middle thirties themselves and worry over their line (only child and such). You actually earn coin as well, though it is a pittance compared to your remittance, but the coin is yours. The five weekly copper chonts serve you though, and Kale has kept an account for you in safekeeping. You must have saved up at least sixty silver chonts by now. Kale updates you weekly.
You've learned the profession of groundskeeping well and Flint suggests that you've got a green thumb as well as a red tail. Although everyone still calls you Fox, Flint has begun to refer to you as Rainbow, on the suggestion that you'll just keep manifesting other colors. The sisters Stone have their hands full with the little tyrant, who is not nearly as little as she was five years ago and the newest children of the Duke, two boys aged three and one. Lamb has become the fulltime servant of the little tyrant while Elsa and Rani are nursemaids to a son each.
The men of the staff have also begun jostling each other for your attention, a fact which escaped you 'til only a year ago when Rani mentioned that you might claim one as your own, should you make the effort. Both Elsa and Rani have been courted though they remain steadfast in their coyness. You are greatly relieved to see that Kale, Haegr, and Lump are immune to your growing charms. Regardless, you are aware that there is a competition amongst the male servants to "Catch the Fox," with wagers placed upon the contestants. You've repaid them in kind for this churlish behavior by leading them deep into the maze and abandoning them. More than once has Flint been forced to guide some sheepish lad out of the maze. He seems to find it in turns of amusement and paternal irritation. (Even the old geezer is on you about finding a man! As if he had a right.)
You haven't seen that duck since, nor have you really thought about it though. So, moving on.
There comes a day, in the midst of summer, that a tragedy has struck the groundskeeping world. One of the Duke's rare plants, a type of moss that glows white and must be kept in the coldest portion of his cellars lest it whither and dry, has died. The Duke is displeased with this occurrence and makes it known to Flint. Someone has to gather up the Moss (from a bitterly cold region to the north) and Flint's too old to go traveling. Seeing as no one else on the property possesses the knowledge to keep care of the moss, the duty falls to you (as always, an expendable servant) to retrieve the thing. No arguments are brooked (for Flint expresses some distress at being left without your assistance), in a day you shall be departing. The Duke has given you a small chest, filled with thirty-five gold chonts (thirty five! Gold chonts! Gold bloody chonts!) with which to complete the task and the name of a coachman to ferry you. Haegr is being sent as a guide for you, as he has hails from this portion of the world, at the Huntsmaster's request. Word is sent to your parents, who quickly send back five gold churls (for nobles and commoners pay in different coin) for your personal expenditures. Most of the Duke's gold is spent on the container and alchemical creations to ensure a steady temperature for the moss, and some good portion is spent on the coachman. Between your parent's churls and the Duke's chonts you've got 10 golden coins (and your sixty-five silver chonts). Briefly visions of luxurious foods and pampered baths fill your mind, but they're quickly dashed as Haegr arrives dressed in chainmail with two long swords at his hip.
You ask why he would think such precaution necessary, to which he suggest that you are not en route to a picnic. He advises you acquire something to fight back with. "They don't barter for what they can take up there. Gran always told me of bandits and monsters that lay within the snow." He offers you a suit of leathers, which the Huntsmaster sent, suggesting that it could be worn without blunting the Fox's bite. Strapping the stiff boiled cuirass on you can't help but thing that it's enormously impractical. You've got legs and arms and a head to cut at, but Haegr shrugs, "Legs and arms and heads are easier to move out of the way." With your remaining gold you could afford a nice weapon from the market, but you remain undecided as to what you ought to buy.
What do you buy?
A) A great big axe! That'll give the bandits some pause.
B) A heavy cudgel. It's what the guards carry with them.
C) A short sharp sword. The captain of the guard wears one just like it.
D) A sling. Rocks worked well enough against the fox.
E) A bow. You'll have time to practice on the road and you've no intention of getting too close to the fight.
F) Nothing! You can run and hide if there's trouble, at least you'll be rich!
Note: We're entering the body of the story. As such time will pass slower and each action will be more important relevant to the moment rather than the distance future (although don't discount actions in the past that catch up with you).
to BUY? C, but I'll make D.
I pick F. She has a dagger. She may believe a larger weapon would mark her as a threat to any bandits they come across to be killed rather than taken hostage. The dagger is also very concealable and would be a determent to any bandit who thinks to take advantage of her after she is captured. Also Haegr is there and while the bandits are busy with him she may be able to make her escape.
A bow or sling takes practice to master and she hasn't really shown an aptitude for either. She would be better off throwing the rocks herself instead of trying to aim a sling.
Keeping the gold would make sense since she didn't give the dagger to her parents and seems elated to have so much gold. I see her as a little greedy and her eagerness to learn the maze depicts a smart girl to me that wants to be as familiar with her surroundings as possible.
I don't know, but she coming as off a little roguish to me. She's proud of her achievements. Pride plus greed equals rogue in my mind.
E. The Bow. She's smart and brave. A bow is the intelligent choice to compliment her friend/bodyguard, and is also an essential survival tool should she need it. Besides, there's no way she's going to be so completely dependent on someone else for her safety. If worse comes to worse, she'll be at range and then she can run away.
Hmmm... no conclusive opinion as of yet. Interesting. Interesting.
E, for not only the reasons stated above, but because I really like a woman with a bow (don't ask why).
I like C. Shortswords... are somewhat easier to use effectively than the other choices.
E. I could see this character more of as a keep them away sort of character.
I pick E as well. She's industrious and used to learning quickly. She can pick up how to shoot the thing and will probably learn to craft her own arrows, too. And, as Idolis mentioned, she's got a dagger already - if things get real. While it would be best to have the sword and the bow, I think overall a bow and dagger is better than a sword and dagger. So there it be.
F
I'm getting a druid vibe from the character and a chance to purchase a wonderful trinket sounds fun
E it shall be, her arrows shall blot out the sun, whether the hit anything though...
Haegr accompanies you to the weapon smith that crafts all the weapons used by the Duke's guard. Although you are drawn to the short swords lain out upon the table, Haegr reminds you that you've already got a good knife. Considering this you lay your eyes on something the old smith certainly didn't craft, a longbow.
The smith, as canny a salesman as she is a worker of metals, follows your eye. "Eye for a bow, yes yes? Well, let me tell you how I wound up with a thing of wood and horn in my store." As she grasps your attention she picks up the bow and hands it to you, "I was hired three month's back to add filigree to this toy of a weapon. You see the silver wound about the grip and capping each end? Yes, that's my work, I can work silver as well as steel. Gold too, if it crosses your Duke's mind to get gold work done yes yes. Anyway, the man that hired me for the job defaulted. Wouldn't give me a dime and claimed that I ought to know my place in things. Well, I gave him a whack upside the head with my smithing hammer, for which I must eternally apologize to my hammer." You're about to comment when she silences you, "Yes, I talk to my hammer, hush. Anyhow, he was trundled off to the care of a physician and I was stuck with this toy. So, I'll strike a deal with you, for... I don't know, twenty gold I'll part with the bow if you'll take thirty-six arrows, with my arrows heads sose you know they can't be beat, off my brother the bowyer's hands. And! You've got to let him think it's him that sells them to you.
You consider the offer, apologize, and explain that you've only got ten pieces of gold. She laughs and lowers it to fifteen pieces of gold. Apologetically you dump the contents of your purse on the table to show her. Ten gold, five chonts and five churls, no other way about it. The smith fixes you for a hard stare. "Fine, but you'll have to do more than just let him think it's your idea. You're going to go over there in an hour. In the meantime I'll take the bow and some arrow heads over and tell him I just couldn't sell the damn thing. You're going to show up and he'll have it in his mind that the thing is a bit of crap, yes yes." Haegr gives the bow a look over to assure you that it is, indeed, not a bit of crap. The smith scoffs at him, "Of course it's no piece of crap. It's osage orange with water buffalo horn. I ought to be able to sell the thing for a king's ransom, but no one in this bloody town takes archery seriously!" The excess blood slow drains from her outraged face. "He's going to offer you ten gold for it, and you're going to snap it up like you haven't got a head on you. Coo and preen over your new bow, yes yes. He'll throw in the quiver, brace, and arrows to 'get you started'." You look at her ****ly, about to shrug when she explains (even more).
"The silly sot is a fine fletcher but he loses his shirt in every trade. I've been supporting him for more than two years now and he needs something for a boost of confidence. Nimble fingers, empty head." She looks meaningfully at you, "And if I find out you paid any less than all ten gold I'll have another reason to apologize to my smithing hammer."
You spend an hour tidying up your affairs, visiting your parents (your mother pays particular attention to Haegr, even as you insist he's not a suitor), and trading your last gossip for a long while with the sisters Stone. The deal at the fletcher's shop goes as planned, and you leave with a marvel of a bow and thirty-six masterfully crafted arrows. The quiver and brace are fair if nothing special. Haegr spends some time talking you through the use, particularly the stringing, of the bow. While awaiting the coachman you and Haegr beg use of the archery range from the captain of the guard and spend an hour or so loosing shafts into bales of straw. Haegr shows great skill with the bow, though you yourself strike the target more than once.
The clatter of hooves alerts you to the coachman's arrival; pulled by four mighty percherons with thick necks and stout legs. As befitting a coachman who makes available regular service to the Duke, each horse has a magnificent coat and the coach is sturdily, if humbly, built. Haegr reasons that the Duke is rather cheap in this and you suggest that the Duke might not want to garner the attention of those famous bandits Haegr warned you of when abroad. You offer the coachman your bundle of goods, which is small, and drape a cloak you purchase two summers ago over your shoulders. You're glad to be wearing your gardening clothes, for your livery-emblazoned dresses would make climbing into the coach difficult. Haegr places himself across from you, having an even smaller bundle than yours. In a heretofore unnoticed secret compartment beneath your seat, the coachman suggests you place the special box, for the Duke would be greatly annoyed if the moss were irretrievable for the loss of a box. You begin to wonder if the coachman was also hired to keep an eye on the two of you.
Returning to the head of the coach, the coachman sets the horses a moving forward. At the gate you are met by a guard, who gives Haegr a note from someone and Flint, who clambers up onto the side of the coach as well as his age allows it. Leaning in he beckons you close. "You may never have need of such a thing," he whispers in your ear as he deposits something small and hard in your lap, "but best to have it about. I've never managed to determine if it'd be of use to you but god help me you look too much like Maggy for it to be coincidence in my mind. Jes dun tell yer gards of it."
He slips off the coach as it starts to move again and shouts a halloo as you go. Moments pass before you realize no one else seemed to have noticed the old man. Your glance flicks to Haegr, who is staring blankly out the window. Peering down, in your lap is a small carven statuette. You're note entirely sure what it's of, some great wolf or dog, then it dons on you. It's a fox. An artistically interpretive version of one, but a fox none the less; you look at Haegr again who is still staring out the window.
Do you show him the statuette?
Of course
Yes
No
Of course not
No. Not yet at least. It might be needed for something.
Its never been said that she admires the gardner but she does like him. She's kept secrets for him before concerning the hedge maze. I think if Flint wants her to keep it secret then she will.
So I'll go with: Of course not
The fox carving seems to be a toy though but if Flint wants her to keep it secret then it is either really important to him or he's just getting senile. Either way, she wouldn't want to disappoint the gardner or reveal a weakness about him that could find its way to the Duke.
Yeah, it appears the old man handed it to her secretly and that it has some meaning to him. She won't tell. It's her li'l secret now.
Yeah, it appears the old man handed it to her secretly and that it has some meaning to him. She won't tell. It's her li'l secret now.
So, is that a No, or an Of course not? It matters.
NO
of course not
So, is that a No, or an Of course not? It matters.
My bad. I say Of course not.
Of course not.
Of course not.
Of course not then. Either you trust too much or too little, perspective depending.
While Haegr's attention is drawn to the window you slip the little statuette down your shirt. Not the most comfortable place for it, as it slips down to your belt and comes to rest near your left hip, but beneath the boiled leather breastplate its completely concealed and you haven't really got anywhere else to put it. Even now your knife is sitting next to you. Perhaps you ought to get a pouch for your belt sometime. Haegr's looks quite useful.
Awaking from his ten-mile stare, he turns to you as though summoned by your thought. "Yes Fox?"
You smile, "I was thinking about a belt pouch. How useful is it?"
"Quite," he begins as he launches into a detailed explanation of all the things it could be used for. Flint and steel, herbs, and poultices all make his list. Looking keenly at your wrist he mentions bowstrings as good belt pouch occupants. You blush slightly, aware that stuffing it between your arm and archery brace is a shoddy way to keep it.
"If that's such a good idea, perhaps you ought to lend me yours." Haegr laughs, which does yards of good for your mood. Hiding the trinket from your traveling companion and childhood friend had begun to wear on you. But then again, if he doesn't ask it's not really lying, is it.
Gazing out the window again he points at something, "We're passing through the city wall now Fox, if you want to see it." You thank him for, in truth, you have not had the chance to see the wall from this side since you're early childhood. You halloo to the farmers you see, who respond in kind. Children dart about in the manner of fire flies, swinging switches vigorously at clusters of birds. Some courageous ones trail behind the coach, shouting questions or simply squealing with the pleasure of the chase.
You pass beyond the farmland of your youth and settle back into the padded bench. Not a bad way to start an adventure, you decide. Haegr strokes his youthful beard, surprisingly thick despite his relative youth. "Haegr," you ask, "Tell me about where we're going. Is it all bandits and monsters? No friendly creatures, no happiness?"
"No, it's not all monsters and bandits; those are just what we'd best be worrying about. You see, life is harder up there, summer only lasts two months or so, and it's not the two months we'll be visiting in, I can tell you that for sure. We'll be drinking melted snow for water and with luck I'll be bringing in small animals for food. Otherwise it's hard-tack and salted pork. Not a bad meal," he rubs his obvious belly, "but it gets old quickly. As we get further and further north though we'll need to play it closer to the vest. Gran said that each inch of snow on the ground is another fight we'll have to face. People get more desperate and less civilized as you go. We'll get a luck break if we bump into my family, but I wouldn't count on it. They live farther west of where we're headed."
He continues for a while as day turns to dusk. "Where are we supposed to stop for the first night?" you ask but, Haegr only shrugs and points to the coachman. You repeat the question for his benefit.
"Landerton, lass, we'll be pickin' op trade goods fer th' trip. I've got t' be sellin' summin to keep afloat. Duke's generous, lets me fill anyfin wot isn't bein' used with trade goods. Make's fer nice bus-i-ness."
The ride takes another hour, which you spend alternating between conversation with Haegr (the Huntsmaster has taken quite an interest in the both of you over the years) and staring that the long rolling plains and hills through which you ride. Haegr points out individual trees and plants he's learned of. While your knowledge of plants covers all manners of nurturing and encouraging their growth, his follows a much more practical bent. Snatching a low dead branch from a tree he holds it out to you. "This bark'll do wonders for a headache, so long as you grind it up first." He smiles, "Just don't think to use a dead branch like this, as it rots quick. Don't want to put that in your stomach I can tell you." He relates a humorous scatological allegory from personal experience. It is hilarious.
"This one, on the other hand," he says as he snatches a stem from a low growing bush "see these odd purple flowers. This one's monkshood and eating that will kill you sure as the executioner's axe."
"I promise never to touch it" you raise your right hand in mock earnesty, though you lock the information away in your memory as useful information, if only to keep from suffering the horrible death Haegr is currently describing to you.
Landerton broaches the horizon as you crest a hill. Rural to be sure, there remains an open bazaar area and a number of tied up horses. The coachman informs you that it's a regular stop for traveling merchants. The coach rolls up to the one and only Inn in Landerton, which is so large as to have three stories and many rooms. Just then the obvious question arises in your mind. Where are you to sleep?
Do you:
A) Suggest that you rent beds in the common room to save money.
B) Suggest the privacy of a separate room with two beds, Haegr and the Coachman can share)
C) Suggest the privacy of two separate rooms, one for you and one for the boys, despite the unenviable drain it will be on your resources.
A. This character she seems fairly practical minded.
A. She seems practical enough. And a belt pouch will be easier to get if she's not payin' for an extra room. :D
A.
While the coachman goes about his business Haegr excuses himself to run an errand, leaving you by your lonesome (well, you and the four great horses). You take care of them to the best of your understanding until a stable boy comes from the side of the Inn and asks if these are "Ol' Jackney's." You give him a perplexed look and he provides a general description of the this 'Ol' Jackney', who sounds quite a bit like the coachman. "'e tolks summat like this an' loves hisself ter words 'ter', 'summat', an' 'bus-i-ness'."
You're sold.
"Yes," you tell the stable boy, who appears three or four years your younger, "these would be his horses and his coach." The boy nods and leads the horses out back behind the Inn. You peer around the corner, half to watch the horses and half to watch the boy. Pleasant enough, but you doubt he'd hesitate to make off with what he could given half the chance. You catch yourself with this thought. Life in Landerton probably isn't much different than life as a servant or peasant in Barridurn's Watch. Indeed you suspect that Haegr, Kale, and Lump came from similarly depressed upbringings. Steeling yourself, you fish out a silver chont and hustle after him. "Boy!" you holler, "boy, wait!" He turns around at your words. Goodness sakes, he's little older than you were when you began receiving pay in the Duke's service. "Here lad, take special care of them." He places his palm beneath your outstretched fist and you drop the coin into it.
The youth's eyes are wide when it comes out silver, and a chont no less. A grin runs from ear to ear on his youthful face. "Madame, I shall sleep next to these bloody horses and feed them every carrot I can lay my hands on."
You open your mouth to clarify your position as a servant when he disappears into a shed, likely hiding the silver in some place he can reasonably expect to keep it safe until he has need of it. The boy does take his time though, and you tire of waiting. "Let him think what he wishes then." You murmur to yourself, "I'm under no obligation to correct him."
Rounding the edge of the building you enter the Inn proper, the lower floor being home to the kitchen and tavern, with a common room in the back. You are once more glad that you've worn your groundskeeping clothes, as they match the general look of the local populace that is sprinkled here and there with a merchant in finer (or sometimes worse) attire. The Innkeep is a relatively short, mousey sort that is accompanied by his taller yet equally mousey wife. Their daughter, on the other hand, who appears to be the sole serving wench, is a massive creature that immediately sends your mind in the direction of cuckoldry, though you cannot fathom that the mousey woman is the type. The daughter is at least six feet tall and broad like an ox, though somewhat flat and brutal in the face. You don't for a moment doubt that she is the bouncer as well as the serving wench.
Approaching the long wooden bar you gesture to the man, who sidles over to you. "Yes? What do you want missy?" His wife looks attentively at you, mug already in hand.
"Three meals if you please, I think my companions will wish to beg drinks of their own, though I'm inclined towards ale." The mousey man nods at each word and sidles off to the kitchen in a manner equally impressive and disturbing. The mousey woman crosses the bar and places a mug of ale before you and departs without waiting to collect. You claim a table near a wall and await the return of Haegr and the coachman, er... Ol' Jackney as you remind yourself that he has a name beyond 'coachman'.
It stands to reason that you could afford a private room, possibly two private rooms for the night, should you desire and it would offer you privacy from sneak-thieves. But scanning about the room you can make out no-one of mean make or rough demeanor. The room would appear occupied simply by farmer's who've worked the fields all day. You remind yourself to discuss it with Haegr and Ol' Jackney. Though, in truth, you've made up your mind to rent three beds in the common room. They've been good enough for you thus far and you're head's not so bloated by the stable boy's remark to act a higher station. Now it will simply be a matter of convincing the two.
Haegr returns first, holding something hidden by the hem of his cloak. He scans the room much as you did, though with a sharper eye, and settles himself at the bar. You call out his name and, much to his surprise, he turns and sees you. His long legs carry him to the side table. "Missed you there at first Fox. Hiding from me were you?"
"Perhaps you're just going blind in your old age?" You chuckle and stick out your tongue.
He grins broadly in return, "then I guess you don't want my gift. Too bad, sure is nice. I'm sure I can trade it to the serving wench for a tumble in the stables."
You backhand his shoulder from across the table and call him a brute. His hand emerges from his cloak and opens to reveal a small belt pouch. Not so big as to hold your coins (though you don't wish to have them dangling at your side) but certainly large enough to fit your bowstring. "Haegr, you shouldn't have. I meant to buy one for myself at dawn."
Turning to look at the wench he grimaces, "well, I'd rather you took it than I offered it to the wench. I'd be quite a bit happier without a tumble in the hay."
"But Haegr," you cut him off, "she's just your sort. Big as you, broad as you, and handsome as you." A dark look crosses his face and you detect the presence of a shadow looming over you,
"Handsome as who?" a throaty voice interrupts you. Blood rushes to your face even as you force yourself to turn about. The wench is there, and much bigger up close than from afar. Much bigger.
"'Ere... I was commenting to my friend that. That, um... Oh hell, I'm sorry. I was rude." You bow your head shamefacedly.
"You think me ugly as he then?" she appraises Haegr thoroughly; "It's not a nice enough belt pouch to buy a tumble in the hay, whelp. Maybe if you sung of my beauty from the rooftop for three nights, but with the looks of you it might take a week." Depositing the food on the table she thunders off without taking an order for Haegr's drink. You both stare at the plates for a few minutes.
Conspiratorially you meet Haegr's eyes, "she smells nicer than you though." Haegr stifles a snicker.
"I ought to carry my apologies to her. I doubt she'd be taken with some bauble, a battle axe instead perhaps?" It's your turn to stifle a giggle as Haegr stands and crosses the room again, engaging her with what is rapidly becoming a lively discussion. The men at the table next to you snicker.
"Best not to cross her, lass, beat Big Ragnar to a bloody last week for pinching her bum." All but one of the men laughs while the last sours.
"I still say she caught me unawares. In a fair fight I'd have had her whipped." The others ignore his sullen outburst. You toss your hair over your face as her eyes are drawn in your direction and feign a fascination with your food.
"I'll beat you again if you don't watch your trap Ragnar." A chorus of whispered ooh's arise from the table as the one called Big Ragnar shrinks into his chair. Peering through the strands of your hair, you can see Haegr must have made some progress as even now she looks calmer.
Ol' Jackney walks into the Inn, passes by a few tables while offered halloos and handshakes, and settles himself at in the empty seat. "Met ol' Jasmine ditchya? Fine a lass as I evar laid m'eyes upon she be. Loyal t'er ma an' pa an' wot. Dun cross 'er." He glances across the table, "Ye wolkin' again Ragnah? I'm right sorpised ter see it. Yer oi still looks puffy roun' ter edgers though. Best t'have Abigail put a slab orf meat on it. Bad fer bus-i-ness ter have a husbin' laid up from a beatin'."
As he speaks Jasmine the Inn Wench crosses the floor with great steps and lays a hand on Jackney. "You're with them Jack-a-Dandy? I suppose I'd better get them drinks anyhow then." Ol' Jackney looks up at her and grins lopsidedly.
"Dun worry over-much love. They're harmless as won kin be, eh? Wouldn' be good fer bus-i-ness t' leave summat un-served though. I'll have a sip o' yer daddy's wine." She nods and kisses the coachman lightly on his head, depositing a mug of ale in Haegr's chair before bustling off to the kitchen.
"Mightn't look much ter yah, but she like's bein' seen as a woman an' wot not. E'eryone abouts knows she's a cuckold's son, jes dun sit well wif 'er. I take it buy ter look she given' yah that yah dun said summat wot didn' sit well wif 'er neither. Might I suggest you offer 'er some apologies an' wot?" You explain that you have, in fact, offered apologies and it hasn't helped. "In that case she jus' dun like yah. No worries o'er tho. She's a gud lass, won't spit in yer food 'er nithing."
***
With that thought to keep you comfortable the rest of the evening you pile into your food. Surprisingly, neither Haegr nor Ol' Jackney have any reservations about renting beds in the common room. They split the tab with you; a silver and a half altogether, and a silver between the three of you for beds in the common room. Jasmine shows no sign of forgiving you, though she seems to have lost some animosity for Haegr over the course of the evening such that when you walk off to your bed she bids him good night. The bed itself is dirtier than yours in the either the common house or the women's quarters. A long sack stuffed with hay, as your bed is, but you can tell its home to some form of biting insect. You throw your cloak atop it and resolve to sleep in your clothes. Haegr and the Ol' Jackney strip down to their wools and both are, unsurprisingly, over concerned with the nipping bugs that vex you.
Nevertheless, sleep comes. Dreams come and go, of the sisters Stone and of farming with your father, mending with your mother. You are drawn to the hedge maze, scurrying about it after leaving a particularly drunk and irate boy at an apparent dead end, laughing as he blundered about in search of you. Perhaps you flirted with danger that time, but hindsight is often perfect that way.
There is warmth in your belly though. And it grows rapidly to a blazing heat. You awaken softly, cracking your lids to peer at your stomach you when you hear whispering so soft it barely crosses your notice. You strain to hear it.
"Well?"
"Nuffing, jus' servints cloff and bits. 'is daggah's th'only fing of worf we might snitch off wiff."
"You're having a laugh. They paid in chonts you dolt, noble-coin. They've got to have more where it came from so find it."
"Ain't nuffing here!" this harsh whisper earns a shushing from the co-conspirator. You're quite pleased that you kept the purse in the hood of the cloak you're laying upon, though keeping the dagger in hand's reach seems an obvious wisdom to you now. They seem to settle for your dagger and leather breastplate, moving on to the foot of Haegr's bed. You're aware that there are locals within earshot, but none so close as the thieves must be. On the other hand, adrenaline is surging through you even now like a molten river, demanding violence.
What noise do you make?
A) Cry out for help, screaming "Thieves! Thieves!"
B) Cry out for help, screaming "Murderers! Cutthroats!"
C) Stay silent to gain the advantage of surprise.
-and-
Should you flirt with danger again or let them be off?
D) Leap from your bed onto the nearest man's back and wrench the knife from his grasp.
E) Use your coin purse as a bludgeon and assault them viciously.
F) Do nothing, it's not worth getting hurt over a knife and bits of leather.
I choose A. For the first.
For the second, I need more information.
Do the thieves have the pouch Haegr bought for her. If they don't then I would say she quietly extracts her bowstring from the pouch to use as garrote. She only screams for help once she has the improvised weapon around one of their throats, preferably the one with the dagger.
If they do, I not sure she would bring out the purse with the coins where they might take it from her. She may just scream for help.
I choose A. For the first.
For the second, I need more information.
You know what she knows. They talked about taking the just the knife and the curiass, but in the dark and from her position she can't take inventory of the goods at the foot of her bed or in their hands in an accurate measure. Either way, garroting them with the belt pouch is, unfortunately, impractical. Perhaps it's my fault for not giving it enough attention. This is a pouch of boiled leather sewn and shaped into a roughly 'box-like' shape, with a lid and fastener. Haegr bought a very nice belt pouch, which is why he considered offering it as a gift, if only in jest.
She has a belt though. But still, it's not something the protagonist considered. While we have the luxury of hours to consider a course of action, she is quite definately acting in the heat of the moment; acting firmly on what is within her immediate reach.
EDIT: Ohhh... my mistake. I thought you meant garrotte them with the belt pouch, not the bowstring. Still, not something she considered. My apologies for the misunderstanding.
EDIT: I'm sorry you missed my edit. You may have been replying while I was in the course of constructing my edit, relieving you of any fault.
If I didn't I apologize.
Edit:
Didn't see your edit.
Edit #2:
It doesn't take hours to determine that she needs a weapon. A garote is much more practical than hitting someone with a purse.
I'm not trying to be argumentative I swear. I was unaware that all her belongings are at the foot of the bed. That was never said.
If they can't see that she is awake and they are assumably standing over her. Then it appears she can't do anything more than scream.
So I choose, A and E.
I'm not trying to be argumentative I swear. I was unaware that all her belongings are at the foot of the bed. That was never said.
If they can't see that she is awake and they are assumably standing over her. Then it appears she can't do anything more than scream.
So I choose, A and E.
They've moved on to the foot of Haegr's bed. You're vote may still stand if you like.
Okay.
She can reach into her hood and bring out the purse to hit them without them noticing?
I guess you're right about the garote but you said she slept in her clothes and I assumed that meant her belt as well which holds her pouch which holds the bowstring.
One of the options you gave was her jumping on the back of the one who had her dagger. I wouldn't think she would do that without some way of subduing her assailant. I figured, the purse would make noise as she pulled it out of her hood. Coins rattling together.
Opening a pouch is silent retrieving a purse full of coins is not.
That's all beside the point though. You ruled the garoting out.
Now the thieve's are at the foot of Haegr's bed. I would assume the boy would not sleep without a weapon since he was concerned about thieve's and bandits from the get go. Screaming would wake him up.
So my vote of A and E stands.
Thank you for clearing things up for me and allowing me the opportinuty to rethink my vote.
Oh, and I want to add, it's a great story. Keep it up.
While one rifles through Haegr's belongings and the other stands watch over the large huntsman, you slide a hand into the hood of your cloak and wrap your fingers around the knotted end of the bag. With the heavy pouch firmly in hand you leap from the bed, screaming "Thieves, thieves!" at the top of your lungs. Frozen in shock, the would be sneak-thieves make easy targets. Your first swing strikes the side of one's head sending him stumbling. The second catches the other just above the neck and he drops unmoving. Haegr is on his feet, long straight dagger in hand, as the first thief recovers from your blow. Before he can reach the thief you club him again, striking just above the neck and dropping him into an immobile heap. It was over in a matter of seconds and your feelings are mixed. The surge of adrenaline leaves you with a feral cast, you might even have bared your teeth at one point, and even as it leaves you you're riding the high of victory. Three blows and two unconscious enemies, that's gotta be some kind of serving girl record.
At least, you think they're unconscious. Haegr kneels warily down, knife tip pressed against the first thief's neck as he rolls the man over. Others in the common room are up and bearing weapons (some makeshift), glancing around until their eyes fall on the downed pair. Haegr leans low, knife still putting tension on the fallen man's neck, and places an ear above his lips. His eyes flick to you and he nods. Good, they're breathing. You're not entirely convinced that's how you feel at the moment, but at least a part of you does not wish to end a human life. Haegr repeats the process with the other one who is also alive. He pauses to admire your weapon, grinning, "Mayhap you did not need a weapon after all. We should get you a bigger sack and lots tiny rocks."
You burst into laughter (which is great, the adrenaline has completely left you and you've begun to shake). "Beware the coin purse of an angry woman." Haegr laughs and makes some joke about a woman scorned.
Jasmine arrives a good few minutes before her father, who comes in bearing a wooden club, though you believe a thief would have more to worry about from his daughter. "Thieves? Where? In my Inn! Never, not allowed, no thank you, inexcusable, hang them on the gallows." You kneel down to retrieve your knife and pull your cuirass away from a small mound of 'loot' they'd collected. It appears they also intended to ferret off with Ol' Jackney's leather boots and coin purse. You see clearly that they meant to make off with both of Haegr's swords and all his armor. "With all they've got you'd think they wanted to be bandits next."
You are surprised by Jasmine's outburst, "Ragnar? Big Ragnar? Damn you for a fool." You recognize the large man now, though his weasely companion is yet unknown. She hefts the large man with both hands and Haegr quickly follows, carrying the little one over his shoulder. You think you hear Jasmine's laugh echo through the inn. The Innkeeper approaches you.
"I'm sorry Madame, terribly sorry. This is not a common occurrence in my inn, I promise you." You prepare to correct his title, but decide you don't really care what he thinks and light into him.
"I can't set a bloody footstep outside of Barridurn's Watch before I'm robbed! Intolerable." You fail to notice that you're handling the coin purse in a relatively menacing manner, "Those are my things they were rifling through, my clothes, my pouch, my unmentionables! Strange men rifled through my undergarments in your bloody damned inn!" Ol' Jackney rolled out of bed at some point you do not remember and placed a hand comfortingly on your shoulder. A hand you only half-heartedly attempt to shrug off. Maybe the rush of danger is still straining you. Maybe you shouldn't be taking it out on the Innkeeper. It's not as though they're his employees or family. Breathing slowly you calm down and the warmth in your belly subsides slightly. Gathering your wits about you you stop yelling, "Ok... ok... who was the second man?" you ask the Innkeeper, he hesitates. Ok, maybe you shouldn't give up on yelling altogether, "Who was the second man!" you demand.
"His brother I think, from out of town."
"And how many brother's has he got?"
The Innkeeper shifts restlessly, "Maybe four or five. They're not usually all together at the same time. I think one actually is still out in Gimblethorn right now. But the other two are here."
"And do they rifle through sleeping women's undergarments often?" He tries to shift again as you pin him in place with a stare.
"Well, err... well, they're something on an unsavory sort, yes. But Ragnar was always good and clean you know. Not like them." As if on cue, Haegr comes rushing into the building, howling about horses. Dagger in one hand, coin purse in the other, you dash out the door and in to the stables. Nothing there, not a single horse. Not just Ol' Jackney's either; all the horses in the stable are gone. Patrons with similar modes of transportation catch the sight and react with strong emotions; some curse, some weeping, one in particular offering up a disturbing prayer to a name you've never heard before.
***
You await Ragnar's awakening with both he and the smaller man bound to chairs in the tavern. You're awaiting his revival with baited breath, though to be fair Ol' Jackney looks both angrier and calmer. "Dun wurry lass," he keeps telling you, "dun nabody keep care of my 'orses as I do. In awl likely hood we'll see 'em back 'ere in a jiff and fin' one o vem brovvers of Ragnah kickered in ter head off ter side of ter road." Quite frankly, it isn't helping. That strange warmth is returning to your stomach as you sit, trapped, in what you consider still a backwater little trading hole.
As you wait, for Ragnar seems intent on staying unconscious, you remember something. "Adam," as you've learned is the Innkeeper's name, "where is your stable boy?" The mousey man looks over at you, "he promised to sleep with the horses and feed them every carrot he could lay a hand on. If he was in the stable he might have been hurt." Adam regards this thought seriously, as does Jasmine who hasn't left Ragnar's side since he was conked out.
A low soft moan issues from Ragnar's lips and everybody straightens up. Jasmine flexes her hands in such a manner to fill the in with popping and cracking knuckles. "Ragnar, wake up! Got questions for you!" Even Ragnar's wife is there, though she obviously doesn't dare speak up against the crowd that is keen to hang him, she looks distraught. One of his eyes cracks open, adjusting to now well lit room. "Whu..."
What do you do?
A) Have Jasmine beat some answers out of him.
B) Beat some answers out of him yourself.
C) Offer coinage for the location of his horse-thieving brothers.
D) Have him hung and question the little one.
E) Press the wife for answers, Ragnar can wait.
My vote is B.
E. The wife always knows. And I'd just like to take the opportunity to stick out my tongue at anyone who was too cheap to spring for the private room....
Spending the night in a private room would have been worse. They'd not have captured the thieves and their horses would still be gone. No thieves means nobody to question about the location of the horses. So, a much, much worse position. Stick that tongue out all ya want. But you're wrong to do it. :P
Oh yeah! My vote is A. And then E. I have a feeling the large lady will want to get answers badly enough in order to avoid a person she obviously kinda likes being sent to the gallows. And she's intimidating as hell. :D
Unconsciousness slips from Big Ragnar like a veil and the first thing he see's is you, brandishing a bag of coins in one hand and a knife in the other. It's a cheap shot, but you take it "I take it you didn't like my coinage so much as you thought you would?" He reaches to rub the back of his head, only to find that his arms are bound quite stiffly beside him. You're quite sure that he'll see through your 'tough' disguise. You're still definitely shaken inside by the robbery and the night's events. If he see's it though, he doesn't act like it. He actually quails a little, "tell me where the horses are." Simple and to the point, you flirt with the hope that he'll just answer you, but he just screws up his face and looks away.
A warmth fills your belly and you lash out with the coin purse, "Don't you look away." You think you can hear a sob somewhere in the background. "You picked through my under garments and you don't think I'm going to get an answer from you?" You hit him again, softer though, for good measure. His cheek and lip are already swelling from the blow. He turns what is fast becoming his one good eye back to you and fixes you with a hateful glare. The warmth in your belly turns to heat and expands up your torso and down your thighs. Briefly, you consider lashing out with the knife instead. You stare back, trying to think of something tough to project.
You remember the fox and how you crushed it's skull with a simple thrown stone. Latching on to that memory you glare back, hardening yourself. He's no Master of Servants, no one to give you orders. In fact, he's impeding the Duke's personal request; the Duke's quite emphatic personal request. Fear of failing the lord of Barridurn's Watch stiffens your back and hardens your stare further. The heat reaches into your calves and shoulders and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. "Where are my Duke's Damn Horses." Ragnar's stare falters slightly and you feel yourself seize the opening, pressing your face closer, invading his space. His left eye is swollen shut from the weight of your coin purse as your forehead comes inches from his. A moment of fear washes over you, perhaps he won't give in and you'll never get the horses back. Perhaps he'd take the location to the gallows just to spite you. Another wracked sob echoes from the back of the room and the heat turns into fire. You're eye to eye with the would be thief, willing him to submit and confess. A rattled breath escapes him and he looks away.
You pull back certain that he's been cowed when the second thief, the brother, yells at Ragnar to keep his mouth shut. Ragnar does so and you turn your attention to the brother. The fire has rolled over your scalp, down your arms, and into your toes. With irritation you know that some folks are backing away from you while Haegr is edging closer. You shove Ragnar's chest, sending him toppling backwards bound to the chair. "Try somefing like that wiff me an' Awl break yah pret-y face, taht." You bare your teeth at him, although you're not entirely sure why, and the room has gotten visibly warmer. Nibs push their way out of the wood chair and the ropes tighten.
"You will do nothing of the sort. You will dance on the gallows. And the Duke will put your family to the sword." You're not sure if it's true or not, but you are very very angry. The brother looks about to speak when he hocks and spits on your face.
Mucus and saliva run off your brow and sting your eye. The fire overwhelms you. The room becomes oppressively hot and humid. Barbed vines sprout from the thief's chair and wrap about his torso, drawing blood. The sounds of fear and fainting surround you. You shove the brother down, rocking the chair backwards and leaving him awkwardly flat on the floor. You pad over and sniff him. He reeks of fear. Casually, envelope his neck in your jaws and pinch him with neck breaking fangs. Holding him thusly, a sub-vocal growl rattles out of your throat and through the room, settling over the panicked people like a blanket.
He faints.
Disappointed you release him from your jaws, padding about while your slender tail whips back and forth restlessly. The scent of urine draws you back to Ragnar and you make an effort to crawl smoothly over his chair, over him, and down the other side. Your green eyes fix on him and narrow to slits. He whimpers and mumbles "north road, a day's walk, hidden behind a copse of doll's eye bushes." A stronger, fecal smell wafts over him as you pad past his head, licking his face with your sandpaper tongue. Convinced of the truth you saunter out of the Inn and into the darkness.
***
You dart swiftly and smoothly through the undergrowth, having run flat out for at least six hours. Your bushy tale laying low is invisible, especially in the dark. You dart erratically forward before sliding with oily smoothness beneath a bush of doll's eye berries. Just beyond you can see two men, roughly the size of Ragnar's brother and twice as mean. A dozen horses, give or take, are tied up to a low branch further back including four incredible draft horses. Turning your ears forward you loll your small tongue and pant slightly, both to cool off and to taste the air. You turn your golden eyes upon the men's surroundings. Neither has an obvious weapon at hand, so you doubt they'll present much of a challenge.
You swish your once bushy now slender tail back and forth. To the left is a large tree and to the right is empty space. Crossing around the tree you keep your green eyes fixed on the horse-thieves, who are oblivious to your presence. You can hear them talking as you shift around behind. "Y'think ol' Ragnar'll keep up to his end? I'd wager a chont he's gone soft."
"Nah, dun think so. May be married n'wot bot I dun think he's gone soft. Too much a The Bandit in 'im t'go soft."
"Yeah, I ain't sure. I never thought he was pap's son. Too big, too bulky, too clean. You can't think mam never took some other blighter to bed, do ya?"
"Dun yah tolk ovah mam that-a-way. You know wot 'appens to them wot gives up loyalty t'The Bandit."
"Yeah, what ever. Paps been dead six years now and yer still acting like he'll pop up behind ye for a switching."
You can't help but think of that as an invitation to strike. Flying from the underbrush, claws outstretched, you clamp onto the well spoken brother's back, burying your teeth in his neck briefly. He tumbles face first into the campfire and you leap from his screaming form to his less grammarian kin. He backpedals, falling on his ass and sending you sailing clearly overhead. Your forelegs strike the ground and your hind legs carry you through a swivel. In the middle of rolling off his back you pounce again, biting and clawing. You can smell the horses fear as they stamp wildly and tug at their bindings.
In some small time your poor victim is dead and his brother incapacitated, having smothered the fire. You pad about the area, looking for any signs of further accomplices but nothing reaches your nose or ears. Arising on two legs you survey the scene when an awful sense of dread hits you.
What, the hell, was that all about.
***
Haegr finds you ten hours later, sleeping fitfully amongst the horses. He awakens you softly, a look of awe in written over his face. A soft mound of moss grew while you were sleeping and served as a pillow for you and fallen leaves covered you like a blanket, though you don't remember how either came to pass. The night was cold and Haegr removes his own cloak to wrap it about your shivering form.
Silently you let him guide you on to a horse that takes you with grace. You note absent mindedly that it's one of Ol' Jackney's percherons. A cold discomfort pressing against your stomach draws your attention as your horse rocks you gently back and forth. Pressing your hand against your shirt you feel something squat and... the statuette. Without ceremony you fish it out of your shirt and, taking note that Haegr cannot see you from so far ahead, look it over. It's no longer a fox, but a cat; a large cat, with a boxy head and powerful jaw.
You mull over this revelation. Flint warned you not to ask your 'guards' of it, but he isn't here to offer you answers and last night, as much as thinking of it sends a thrum through the core of your being, terrifies you. Weakly, you call up ahead, "Haegr? Can we find some of that headache bark?" He laughs, though it's not his normal booming laugh, and canters off to the side of the road.
"Better we take care of this here. I doubt we'll want to linger once we've reached Landerton." He takes an eye full of you, and a pang of doubt strikes you. He may whish to begone, be rid of you. Friendship have lost over lesser things than changing into terrible beasts and murdering men. The thought bubbles over into a sobbing, wracked giggle. Haegr scoots closer, already some bark with a mortar and pestle from his pack, "Come on Fox, don't cry." He looks frustratedly in the direction of Landerton. Curiosity overcomes concern and the massive youth edges a little closer, whispering conspiratorially. "What was it like, what you did back there?"
Astonished, you were sure he'd bolt. Although he may, depending on your answer.
What do you respond?
A) "It was horrible. I felt like my body was on fire and all I wanted was to rend and tear.
B) "It was terrifying. A wave of fire consumed me and wild instincts took control.
C) "It was liberating. The world around me tasted and smelled a hundred different ways and I could run forever.
D) "It was invigorating. My muscles were powerful, my eyes keen, and my fangs sharp."
Great work so far. Keep it up! Oh, and thanks for doing all of this. It's fun as hell.
If I had to choose in order it would be first A, if she starts from the beginning. Then C and goes into D and then finally comes to B.
If you're looking for a short answer then I'm going to go C like Zombie_Babies but I don't see why she can't feel all those things about it.
So anyway, my vote is C and D with a smattering of B
P.S. I kinda figured the statuette was a druidic or shamanic totem of some sort. She's definitely in harmony with nature.
I knew I was getting a druid vibe, so let all of motha' nature out!
"I don't really know how I feel." You answer him as he lays his cloak over your shoulders, "everything was so muddled up. I was on four legs, then four different legs, completely different legs, and it wasn't any different than walking on two. This terrible fire started in my belly and spread out to my limbs and, when I felt like I was burning, I found myself on all fours with his brother's neck in my mouth. And it all, it all made I don't know, it made sense to put his neck in my mouth and growl. Like it was a solution to the problem, like that's how I should always handle things, by putting someone's neck in my mouth." Tears are slipping off your face now. Not that either of you notice, but where they hit the local flora, it perks up. "My eyes were sharp, but I couldn't see many colors, and everyone smelled pungent and keen, and the noise was deafening, everyone breathing, sobbing, shouting." A thought occurs to you, "Haegr? I'm not a werewolf am I?"
He looks at you, "I never heard of a werewolf turning into a big cat, so I'd say no. Gran says there's mystics back home, shamans and the like that will take the shape of an animal for a while. But on the other hand if there are werewolves then there's no reason there couldn't be were-big-cats." He pulls out a silver coin and tosses it to you. Without thinking you catch it, only to follow his line of thought a second later.
"Hey! What if I was a were-big-cat and it burned me, you lummox!" Haegr only grins.
"Then we'd have known for sure." He smiles, "I think you're like the shamans and the witch-folk back home. You can take on shapes." He looks around bashfully, "was it, is it, something you can do again. Like, now? Or maybe you could teach me?"
You ponder it, not entirely sure you want to and entirely sure that you want to at the same time. "I don't know, I'm starving and cold though. I'd like a fire and warm soup, not to alternate between skin and fur at your behest." You consider letting it go, but you're confused and that makes you cranky, "you know, when I had my mouth around his neck, you were closer to me than everyone else there," Haegr leans in to listen, "and you smelled worse than anyone in the room, including when Ragnar shat himself."
He half-heartedly swipes at you and you roll your shoulders out of the way. To your surprise, the statuette hidden in your fist radiates warmth, but you push it back down. You swallow a bit of the powder with a swig of harsh liquor, which you were expecting to be water, and begin to cough and hack rapidly. Haegr grimaces, "Sorry," he tells you, "wrong flask". You wash down the burning with water, though it doesn't relieve your ravaged throat. A softer warmth rolls through you as Haegr helps you back up onto the horse.
It is thus, looking haggard and reeking of alcohol, that you return to Landerton with the horses in tow. There is cautious cheering awaits your arrival. The most polite eyes fix on Haegr, those less so openly stare at you. Ol' Jackney takes the reins of your horse and guides it gently to the coach. Helping you off you can't not notice that no one has surrounded you to laude you with applause and it would appear, kisses from fair maidens. At least someone could come over and kiss you. At this moment you don't really care who it is as long as it isn't the hors-! It looks like you got your wish, a horse has just nuzzled the back of your next with big, wet, coarse horse lips. You slip back in the coach as another horse comes about. A general whinnying is heard about you when a head peeks in the other side of the coach. It's the stable boy, two black eyes and missing teeth. You're not sure if his nose was crooked last time you saw him either.
"I'm bloody sorry I let 'em get off with your horses Ma'am. I tried to whip 'em but they came up behind me an all and well... well they whooped me good ma'am. I'm dearly sorry. I went an dug up the coin you gave me yesterday on the chance that you'd want it back." You shake your head no and smile. You're about to speak when he interrupts you, "and I don't believe nothing they say about you being a monster. People just get panicked in the middle of a fight. I mean, there's no way you turned into a big ol'... what'd Moray call it, jay-gua-are, like a great big black cat. All those folks must have been seeing things."
You consider your situation briefly, as you're not sure how to respond.
A) "Why, yes I did. Only I was more than a cat, my jaws could crush a man's neck."
B) "Actually, I'm afraid I did. What'd he call it, a Jaguar? I didn't know what it was called."
C) "No, of course not, people can't change into animals, everyone knows that."
D) "I'd really rather not talk about it, it was a long and painful night and I am tired."
Or, you know, D.
D it is! Just break the little stable boy’s heart why don’t you! You cruel… mean… meanies!
You fix him with a withering glare, “I’d really rather not talk about it. It’s been a long night and I am tired. I ache everywhere and am in no mood to be pestered.” Embarrassment and heartache cross the boy’s face as he disappears from the coach window. You snuggle up against a corner and pull the cloak tight. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” you mutter to yourself, “I’d like someone to thank me for retrieving their horses.” Bitterness is slowly pushed aside by weariness and you fall into a dreamless sleep.
Well, dreamless isn’t the right word. You have dreams, they just aren’t tiring. In fact they’re quite restorative. In your dream there is no village here, rather you’re sitting on the back of a great bull in the middle of a forest. Strange, you didn’t think cows lived in forests, but dreams are funny like that. The bull is black and broad shouldered with great wide horns. Trees surround you in a clearing of soft grass. Despite its bulk and relative ungainliness the bull sets itself down without disturbing your rest. Thus, laying on the back of a massive bull, who lays in the middle of a wooded dell eating flowers, you get all the sleep you need. You hear quite a ruckus in the distance though; some great hollering and another harsh, voluminous sound. Something light and airy batters your face when you realize, it’s not a dream anymore.
Your eyes snap open. You’re in the coach, as is Haegr, and you’re moving. Something white and brown is fluttering about, evading Haegr’s grasp and honking loudly. Not honking, quacking. Quacking loudly and scrambling about chaotically in a flurry of wings and feathers. Just as you awaken it flies out the coach window backwards. Looking down, you see a fresh pile of duck excrement is decorating your shoe. You curse inwardly. “What the hell Haegr, did you bring a duck with you for good luck?”
“Bah!” he waves dismissively at the thought, “it tumbled in through the window backwards. I thought it might disturb your rest so I tried to shoo it away. That’s when it went mad, flapping about, battering me head to toe with its wings, and honking away like some banshee mallard. Ought to have caught it, as ducks are good eating, but could wrap my hands around it.”
He looks visibly irate at the thought of being evaded by a duck. You grimace at your shoe, the white stuff clearly distressing and smelly. Sighing you slip the shoe off, careful to avoid the runny mess, and hold it out the window, flicking repeatedly with your wrist to toss off as much as you can. Withdrawing your arm, the shoe is still stained, indeed, you notice it is twice stained and remember another such situation days ago. “Accursed ducks!” You swear. Settling yourself down you take Haegr in, obviously uncomfortable beneath your gaze, you ask the obvious question, “When did we leave Landerton.”
Haegr shifts his great bulk a little. “About three or four hours past, maybe more, I could tell you if the trees didn’t block out the sun.” You are immediately suspicious, but let the question hang in the air. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Haegr breaks beneath your stare, “They’re suspicious folk there Fox. I don’t think they liked the idea of someone changing shape, whether or not you saved them a lot of trouble by fetching the horses. Ragnar’s wife is calling for you to hang for witchery, claiming you bewitched her otherwise good husband into the crime. Of course, Ragnar doesn’t seem to have a problem trading spots with you on the gallows, so he’s saying it was you as well. Jasmine still had a bone to pick with you, though she didn’t think you ought to hang, we weren’t welcome at the Inn anymore. All in all, it was safer to get out of Landerton. Ol’ Jackney agreed, so we’re on the road. Alright, I’ve told you. Now put your glare somewhere else.” He looks at the floor of the coach for a while, “it might be best if you didn’t change shapes again. Or work the wood against folk, at least not in public. I’d best get you proficient with that bow, because I doubt that it’ll take long for tales of a woman changing to a cat and bewitching men into lives of crime to travel.”
“What!” It’s all you can muster, though it has all the emphasis of surprise and anger. “I brought back the damned horses, I slew the damned thieves, I got the location out of Ragnar, and I stopped him and his brother from pillaging the common room. Me, Myself, and I. Just me and no one the hell else!” Haegr makes soothing motions with his hands, willing you to calm back down but you refuse. “Without me they’d all be broke and horseless and never the wiser. They don’t just owe me an apology,” you are now screaming to no one in particular, “they owe me a great big damned thank you. Free food, hugs and adu-bloody-lations. If I find Ragnar and his weasely little skitch of a wife somewhere, anywhere, I’ll tear their throats out!” Haegr blanches at your protestations and, now, rather dark vows. “And a duck pooped on my shoe!”
That settles it for you, closing the issue you plop back down in your seat (you hadn’t realized that you were standing actually). Ol’ Jackney says nothing until the horses are whinnying and snorting. “I’d apper-siate yew not rilin’ up ter hoses miss. Ain’t good fer bus-i-ness to have rilet up hoses.” Blood rushes to your face even though he can’t see you and you mutter a quiet sorry.
“I tried to tell them about how you did all that Fox, but it was like the just didn’t hear it. They kept thanking me and pretending you weren’t there.”
“Moor ter likes they dinna’ won’ ter hear yew lady. Moor ter like they dinna’ won’ ter.”
You suspect the trip will take some time yet and you’ll have plenty of time with Haegr, Ol’ Jackney, the statuette, and yourself.
What do you do with the next three hours?
Hmm. I guess she could ask Haegr about where they're heading next. I don't think she'd want to show anyone the statue. Yet. Maybe she'd try to study it - as best she could - secretly. Kind of just touching it while it's still inside of wherever she's got it. Maybe focus on the things that happened - the emotions she felt - at the time of her transformation. If Haegr falls asleep, take it out to study it while doing something similar. Basically, try to replicate the situation to see what, if anything, the statuette does.
That sounds right about right.
Keeping secrets for the groundskeeper is all fine and good, but if she suspects the statuette is the source of her new found power she may think that the groundskeeper put her into danger without even hinting to her what he was doing.
She might still not tell Haegr where she got the statuette saying something like she found it while pulling weeds or something but I think she might share her speculations about the statuette with him.
It might even be that Haegr will know something about such trinkets or know someone who does.
Edit:
So what I'm saying is that I agree with ZB on everything but how she might do the experiment. She might want Haegr help. I also think she might start wondering why she gets so angry recently.
Oh, and the duck is obviously starting to get on her nerves. She's attracting them for some reason.
I'm not absolutely convinced it is the same duck so her ability may be doing something that effects the ducks' ability to navigate and control its bowels.
Hmm. I guess she could ask Haegr about where they're heading next. I don't think she'd want to show anyone the statue. Yet. Maybe she'd try to study it - as best she could - secretly. Kind of just touching it while it's still inside of wherever she's got it. Maybe focus on the things that happened - the emotions she felt - at the time of her transformation. If Haegr falls asleep, take it out to study it while doing something similar. Basically, try to replicate the situation to see what, if anything, the statuette does.
You've got three votes for this but I want to make sure I understand the intention. "Fox should see if she can change shapes again", yes?
You've got three votes for this but I want to make sure I understand the intention. "Fox should see if she can change shapes again", yes?
Well, it could be that or something less drastic. She could see if she is able to get the feeling of warmth that preceded the change back. Less chance of eating anyone there. I think. But if the others (such as Idolis) think she should just go for broke, I don't have any problem with that, either. She'd do that eventually. So now works, too.
Umm. Let's clear that up. 'Yes' to attempt the change or to attempt to regain the feeling that preceded it.
I vote for sleep.
Boo! :P She just woke up!
But, PBN has a right to his vote. The dream was interesting and she might have seen meaning in it and want to delve deeper.
You settle unhappily into your seat, glaring at the trees and such. Well, if everyone is going to treat you like a witch then you're going to act like it. You look at Haegr, well, ok, not everyone is treating you like a witch. "I'm sorry about my outburst Haegr, I'm just cranky." Your face creases with worry, "You must be about ready to drop though, here, take your cloak and settle in. I don't think we'll run into anything this close to home." You aren't actually sure how close to home you are, but it sounds like fine logic to you. Haegr mumbles some half-hearted negative before accepting the outstretched cloak 'if only so you stop shoving it in his face' and quickly lapses into a soft sleep.
You peer about at your surroundings. It's still a forest on either side, copses of thick trees crowd out vision much farther than the road. You tell yourself that there are no bandits out there, watching you, waiting with crossbows, but you give up. If somethings going to come, then it's going to come whether you want it to or not. Best to bend your mind to more... useful... tasks. You draw the statuette from your shirt again and decide perhaps it ought to wait in your belt pouch from now on. Well, now that you're wearing it. It's a **** little thing, made of wood, or perhaps very old bone, but you don't feel anything from it now. Curiosity probes deeper and you look over the fine details of the interpretive feline.
On closer inspection, the cat has some humanish shapes to it. The hind legs are longer than the forelegs, and the head has a slightly too pronounced brow. You dare say it's a transitional image, if you were just guessing (which you are). The nails are blunter than cats claws and a bit wider, and the rump a touch to round. Your face colors as you wonder if your rump looks like that as a cat and if Haegr saw it. No, you remind yourself, he found me human and sleeping on a bed of moss.
It was a whole bed of moss wasn't it, not just a pillow like you though. Your mind wanders back as far as you can remember. A bed of moss, soft, spongey moss. There was something special about it no less, a warmth that seeped into your bones. You look at Haegr, no doubt he'd like something of that sort. You wish for it to grow beneath him.
Nothing.
Oh well, best laid plans of mice and men. You keep going over the evening. Leaves fell on you, probably from all the nearby trees. They were soft, like new sprouts, and fuzzy on the underside. Not so much like tree leaves, but more like flower leaves, or perhaps like some of the vines on the Duke's estate. Actually, exactly like the vines of the Duke's estate. They don't normally grow in the forest, to your understanding. You involuntarily shudder at the memory of the thorny vines drawing blood from the sneak-thief.
Putting your mind back at the task you notice there is a warmth in your hand. Your unfocused eyes refocus. Your statuette is no longer a big cat, it's something of a vine coiling over a log. Heart shaped leaves, berry clusters, all clues but not conclusive... unlike the soft layer of vine wrapping over sleeping Haegr. Dazed, you cannot tear your eyes from the sight. They're growing out of the coach, which must be made of wood, and laying gentley over him. He is covered with the large heart shaped leaves.
A bump in the road snaps you out of it. Seizing the opportunity, you throw your mind further back to last night. The leaves were like a blanket, not a vine. Something held them together, it could have been... you try something. The vine itself unwinds and threads its way through the leaves. You made a blanket! You made a blanket out of leaves! Holy crap. The statuette is hot in your hands now as you pour your will into the task. The leaves begin to unwind slightly, a sight which is perhaps a little creepy, and weave themselves together. You can still see defined heart shapes amongst them, but they are less distinctly individual and the blanket is far more cohesive. Hell, it's nicer than the blanket you had last night.
On a lark, you focus on individual strands and they twitch about as you wish, but pinning them down is exceedingly difficult. Like working with a needle that changes direction rapidly. Instead you pick a single strand of vine and demand that it harden. The vine hardens and then crumbles. You choose a second piece but are less forceful this time, it straightens like a thorn. Guiding it you pretend you're simply stitching something up. You move your hands for added effect. The needle and thread follow your fingers, and you write Haegr in broad sweeping letters.
In your excitment you wave your hands, distraught when the needle does the same and gives Haegr a vicious poke. He awakens with a start, throwing his head wildly about. You resist the urge to snicker, as he fixes his eyes on the leaf blanket. "You can't help but feel unbelievably proud of yourself.
What do you say?
A) "I made you something!"
B) "Boogaboogabooga!"
C) "Calm down Haegr, I was just practicing."
D) "This is just a dream, you're not really covered in a blanket of leaves, go back to sleeeeeEEEEeeeeep."
C.
D.
EDIT: I'd also like to add a reminder: This is a choose your own adventure story. While there are some opportunities to plainly choose a direction, I feel that when we're given a list of options by our gracious author that we need to choose one from the list or abstain. To me, adding an option seems disrespectful to the work we're being gifted with. Now I am just speaking for myself and I have no idea how our author feels about this, but I do think it a bit more considerate to choose from what we're presented with.
"I made you something!" you yell. The thrumming fire in your hand subsides and you tuck the statuette back into your belt pouch. "It's just a blanket, I stitched your name in it. Sorry I got you with the needle right there at the end though. I think the coach hit a bump and I stuck you." Haegr looks as though he feels absolutely no better knowing this fact. No matter, you're still riding the high of stitching a blanket out of leaves. "I was just thinking about last night, you know, and how I was covered in leaves and what not. Anyway, I started trying to remember stuff, what kind of leaves they were and when they'd covered me when a vine started growing," thinking better of it your lower your voice; Ol' Jackney might not be pleased to have you growing vines out of his coach, "out of the coach. I think it was because earlier I'd thought you looked a little chilly. So I noticed this vine growing out of the coach and sort of, you know, made it do what I wanted. I don't really know how to explain the sensation Haegr, it just..."
Haegr is staring at you, mouth agape. You ask him whats wrong, and he informs you that you've got cat eyes. You vainly wish you had a mirror (not that you've ever owned one) but you banish the thought. "You can't be serious. Not like, green ones with slits and what not."
"No, they're very wide open, but the black of your eye is definately vertical." He edges a little closer to the side of the coach.
"Well! Well. Ugh!" You close your eyes (hoping this will help some). Perhaps your antics with the vine spun a little out of control. You think about eyes. Human eyes of course. Focusing on the few images you've seen of yourself while polishing mirrors you remember your natural color. Hazel, with flecks of gold. Very definately round blacks of the eye, surrounded by hazel, with flecks of gold at the outer edges. Quite honestly, you have no idea if it's working. You open your eyes, "Ok, how about now?" Haegr nods. "What does a nod mean?" He mutters that they're fine. "Ok. So I just pretending I was stitching the leaves like I mend clothing and that's it. End of story." A wetness forms in your eyes (although the room is quite a bit less bright), "Just crawl out of the coach why don't you."
You're not sure what Haegr does next, you've buried your face in the side of the coach and started crying. It isn't fair that he freaked out. He's supposed to be your friend. To hell with him then. Haegr can rot. The one thing you do notice is that he hasn't come over and comforted you.
***
The miles roll on awkwardly and slowly. At some point Haegr tried to apologize, something you quickly and strongly cut off. He should have kept apologizing after your rebuke, or he would have if he cared, but obviously he doesn't. Ol' Jackney called back, and you think Haegr crawled up to sit by the coachman, proving once and for all that he's scared of you and thinks your an abomination. The coach comes to a jerky halt and Ol' Jackney calls back that the horses are stopping to water and feed. Peeking out the window you see a small river with a wide bridge. Presumabley the brake is on and he's let the horses off.
Haegr pops his head in to suggest that you and he do some archery, but he doesn't sound altogether excited about the prospect, so you swear violently at him.
The coachman calls back that the horses are rested and watered, not as if you really cared, but you yell something affirming back to him. Once more Haegr apologizes (and looks really depressed). You don't rebuke him, but you don't really accept it either. He keeps on it and you agree to shot some arrows, just in case. He covered stringing a bow with you, which turns out to be quite difficult despite (or perhaps on account of) the majesty of your bow. He pins a leaf to a tree with a dagger and you take turns shooting at it. You spend a lot of time retrieving your arrows from the forest. More time than you spend shooting.
On one such trip you return alongside Haegr, feeling much better about the afternoon's incident, to find Ol' Jackney tied up and three men rustling through the coach whil another two lead the horses away.
And one rifling through your package.
Your undergarments.
What do you do?
A) Wait for Haegr's lead and do as he suggests. Bandits are his area after all.
B) Start firing arrows into their midst. As long as you don't hit the horses you'll be fine.
C) Reach for the heat of your statuette. Who cares what happens, they're rifling through your undies! THEY MUST BE PUNISHED!
If she misses then we can go to C.
C
Haegr puts his hand out to tell you to wait, but it's far far too late for that. You're already running at breakneck speed and yelling. You meant to yell 'Get Out of my Undies!' but what actually comes out is closer to this:
"GET OUT OF MROOOOOOOOOARRRRRR!"
The bandits are quite confused until they see you, a terrible massive grizzly bear, charging out of the brush. For a brief moment you wonder if they are more or less confused for it then they leap into action. The two leading the horses leap up on their backs only to be violently bucked off.
The horses don't seem all that bothered by you. Bully for them.
The three men scavenging the coach take a more direct approach and run like hell when they find themselves suddenly peppered by arrows. You can hear a twang that you associate with your bow coming from behind you. The three are quickly peppered with shafts and lay incapacitated or dying. And then there's the poor bastard who was rifling through your things. He pisses himself, followed immediately by something much more foul. His clever ploy almost works, as the stench is unbearable, but he was rifling through your unmentionables damnit! You rear back and bat him away with your massive clawed paw. He flies, literally, through the air and lands ten feet away, his head cracked against a tree. Ol' Jackney is waking now, based on the smell of fear rolling off of him. You thunder past him to the horse thieves, aware that Haegr is swiftly approaching from behind.
One tries to crawl away, utelizing the same technique as his underwear stealing companion, so you snag his leg in your jaws and crack down. The limb is not only easily broken, but spurts blood with reckless abandon. The coppery taste fills your mouth. It tastes off too, perhaps he had some sort of blood born disease. You try not to think about that possibility. Not that hard, actually, the other thief smacks you upside the head with his club. It really doesn't feel like much though, perhaps a bumping your head. You pin him to the ground with our great paw, leaning on it and slowly crushing the life out of him. He flails madly about with his club and gets you on the snouth. A wave of inexplicable nausea and pain roll over you. You stumble away. Your nose won't stop radiating hurt. And it hurts so bad. You bury your nose in the dirt, covering it with your paws, rocking your head about like a wet dog. You're sure you smell your own blood. He's battering at you again and it's starting to hurt. He cracks you a good one over your left eye and half of the world disappears.
You're not ok with this. You lunge forward, trampling over him. His screaming is punctuated by blows to your legs and rear, when you do the only logical thing. You sit on him. Immediately his screaming turns into harsh, whispered prayers, begging some such name or another to save him from undoubtabley approaching doom. You turn to see Haegr out of your good eye, who is sizing you up. You snort a harsh sound and immediately regret it as waves of pain coruscade through your head again. The world goes topsy turvy for a minute and you pass you.
***
Your eyes crack open and you're staring at the sky. Or the underside of the forest which is briefly punctuated by the sky. Something soft and fuzzy is covering you, you try to move your head but feel wildly dizzy and lay back down. You catch a glance of a large man before everything cascades into darkness again.
Your eyes crack open again and you're sitting up. You don't know why you needed your eyes to tell you that, it seems like it should have been perfectly obvious. But you're in the coach with Haegr, hell, the coach is moving and it's near evening.
"Doing alright Fox?" he asks, "Or should I call you Bear now? That was pretty amazing what you did back there, and if you're ever in the mood to teach me I'd like that." He grins a little, "I'm not so sure about being some overgrown **** cat, but I'd take a bear any day."
Your nose hurst like hell, reaching up to touch it you discover it's bandaged. As is your puffy left eye. Your mouth tastes bitter and powdery. You stick out your tongue and blanche, "That's the bark. I'd bet you'd be in another world of pain if you didn't have any in you right now." He looks abashed, "look, I'm sorry about earlier. It's just, I was sleeping, right? And something pokes me and draws blood, I'm covered in a blanket of leaves, and you've got wierd green catseyes. And I was having a nightmare about a yeti, the one Gran told me would come to fetch naughty children." He stares at the floor, "I'm just, I'm sorry alright?"
You've already fallen back asleep, but you wake up to hear him say he's sorry. You mumble out through throbbing lips that "ithsokay", which seems to settle it. He goes about reapplying poultices to your eye and face.
"Looks like if you get a beating, no matter what shape you are, it still follows you. Sounds a lot less useful now." You remember to ask something about bandits and Ol' Jackney, or 'badiths' and 'o jaggee', as it were. "Ol' Jackney's fine, save the bump on his head. The bandits are hanging at the edge of the forest, clearly marked for their crime." You look as askance as you can at him, which is difficult with one eye and a head full of cotton. "Duke's law. I figure we're his servants, so we represent him. Bandits hang from the neck until dead and all that. Also, and attack on the Duke's men is an attack on the Duke, etc, etc. You've heard all that before." You take his word, you're not even sure you've heard your own name at the moment.
"Udeegareeths?" You manage. When Haegr looks confused you motion for your belongings. He leans out of the coach and retrieves them from the roof. Opening it up you see your undergarments are still in tact and breath a sigh of relief. A rasp of relief. Kind of a rattley exhalation of relief.
"We're off to No One's Inn next, if you're wondering, we ought to be there soon. It's the best stopping point between now and Gorsmeet. We'd have been there this evening save for our late start and our... interruption." He leans back and you notice that the blanket you made his is draped across his legs. He follows your look, "well, I had a little time to look it over and, it is pretty warm. Actually, if you could sort of, you know, stitch it into some sort of cloak like thing it'd be a wonderful thing fo slinking around outdoors and such.
You wave your hand vaguely and lean back, awaiting your arrival at the No One's Inn.
***
Another hour brings the moon out to it's full height and an absolute rat-hole of an Inn to your attention. Two floors, sort of as the second sort of sloughs off to the side, a fences that would be improved by termites, and a stable without a roof will be your generous lodging for the night. Haegr shrugs, "No one comes here that can afford not to."
Your legs are bruised but unharmed, still, you lean on Haegr for support as you make your way inside. The Innkeep gives you and Haegr a nasty grin which despite your battered and bruised condition you have strong urges to wipe off his face (with or without claws). Haegr shushes you and leads you upstairs to the serenading sound of Ol' Jackney haggling vociferously with the Innkeep. There is no common room. The room you are in is bare and shoddy, the bed infested and the window broken. You consider sleeping on the floor but it might actually be worse. Nevertheless, this is the bed you collapse into and fall asleep immediately.
And wake up just as fast. Bandits? Robbers? Strange men rifiling through your undergarments! Why can't you have a damn moment of peace- oh, you're in the middle of the dell again atop the massive bull. It occurs to you that you're dreaming, but it's a damn sight finer place to be than in that shoddy bed. Your body is still banged up, though a bit better for being in this pastoral scene. You look about you, you're within a ring of trees with some kind of pointed needle-leaves atop a great black bull with massive curled horns. All around you are wild flowers of many colors. At one end of the forest is a spring, welling up from somewhere underground, of shimmering azure.
Yes, it's definately preferable to that flea infested rat-hole. You slip off the bull's back and it turns, carefully passing it's horn over you, and nuzzles your back. Turning to look it snuffles your face, it's warm musky breath passes over you and you are rewarded with a great slobbery, sand-paper tongue bath all over your face. Yip-ee. Your face does feel better though. Apparently satisfied, the bull lays it's head back down (carefully avoiding a goring you again) to snuffle the flowers.
What do you do?
A) Examine these strange trees and thier needle-shaped leaves.
B) Move through the wild flowers, identifying them as best you can.
C) Spend some quality time with the magnificent bull.
D) Step over to the spring and mess with it.
--Starting tomorrow afternoon I will be on vacation with in laws. I'll try to conjure up a post here and there, but after tomorrow morning I can't promise anything.--
Aww screw it, I want to find out what you mean by "Quality time with the bull".
I vote C. Final answer.
B
This story is still subject to the CoC. But you're welcome to follow me on my personal webcam sit- just kidding. Let's get to know this bull!
You turn back to the bull because, quite frankly, it's the weirdest part of the story. I've never met a bull (or a cow) up close before. The rest of this could easily be conjured from your imagination, but not the bull. You give it a once over. The hair you thought was just black is blue-black and glossy. It's horns push out straight for an arm length on either side before curving sharply forward and up. You run your hand over the hump of it's back and feel the corded muscles there. Reaching forward you rub the top of it's head and the bull moos softly before returning to eating flowers.
It is for sure a magnificent beast. Resting your hand on it's back, your strength begins to return and the day's battle wears away from you. The thought of the battle crosses your mind and the bull get's restless, snorting. You push the fight from your mind and the bull settles back down.
But, you noticed something you missed before. A sense of largeness from your contact with the bull. You appraise it again. From the corner of your eye the mighty bovine looks much larger, perhaps as large as a building. It turns an eye towards you. Initially you're drawn to coo over the cows beautiful deep eyes, but something else is there as well. Wisdom, perhaps, heavy age too. Something of an inspired greatness as well.
You cross infront of the bull and sit before it. It turns it's head to one side and regards you with the other wide bovine eye. You're no longer sure this is simply a bull, there is an inestimable ancientness to it. Scootching closer you nearly yelp when it lays it's head in your lap. Without crossing your consciousness your hand is outstretched and laying on the bull's forehead. Weariness fills you and you lay your head on the bull's great shoulder. He, in turn, lays his head in your lap. If not for the one horn bearing some of his weight, you feel as though it could crush your legs.
As you drift into a second sleep (how strange) a low sense of concern filters through you. Not a targeted or distinct feeling, but a constant undercurrent of a fear over predation. You are young, though your mother moos comfortingly and grooms your neck with her sandpapery tongue, and nervous. Stubby little horns poke from above your head and itch maddeningly. You grind them into the ground, surprised to see blood and fur! You amble over to your mother, panicked. Her proximity calms you down. Life goes on, your horns grow. You see a wolf in the distance, coming around behind you. The fear of predation burns through your veins as it turns it's golden eyes upon you. It howls, and is answered by a chorus of howls. Your herd stampedes, they are running, charging, and leaving you behind. You gouge the ground with your now mighty horns and charge. The wolf seems taken aback, for he is quickly and easily gored and tossed aside. A great bellow looses from your throat. You sight another wolf, quickly approaching from the side, that is quickly distressed by the sight of it's kin. You charge again, bellowing, and gore this one. The end of the day puts four bloodied wolf carcasses at your hooves. You bellow and bellow until the day is done and return to your herd. Your horns grow and you grow. You challenge the bull for leadership, knocking him senseless in a trying bout of locked horns and thick skulls. You are in charge, you mate frequently and often. Your herd does not flee from predators, it gores them mercilessly. As the might of your herd grows so do you. Other bulls grow old and grey with age, weakening. You have grown stronger, larger, mightier. You are bigger than a bear or a roc.
The world changes, there are strange trees, standing straight side-by-side. Other herds are trapped in these, you feel this strongly, and you lead your herd away from these places. Then pink furless predators come for your herd. You attack, slaying a goring, it is successful. But the next day there are more, and the next day even more, and on and on. Your herd thins, you take them into the wilds, deeper and deeper, fending of the starved attentions of natural predators. Then come seven of the furless ones. They are strong and fast and terrible. Working together they slay your body and abandon you to a shadowy place and in the midst of this shadowy place you found this dell and laid here.
You awaken in your flea infested room at morning, feeling greatly refreshed with strong limbs and clear mind. And horns. Strong limbs, clear mind, and horns. These you feel as a heaviness on your head. You touch them, they're terribly sharp, and strong (you assume). With effort (less effort than before) you feel them sort of, go elsewhere. Perhaps back into your dream.
Haegr opens the door and slides through, "You feel up to mov-" he stops "Fox! Your face."
You stare expectantly at him, "what about my face. Not willing to travel with it anymore? I feel the same about your smell sometimes."
Shock and awe are viciously beaten from his face by mirth, "No, no, it's a fine face, if somewhat plain. It's what you aren't that astounds me. By that I mean beaten black and blue." You're hands reach up and inspect your face. Indeed, the eye is no longer black and your lip no longer swollen. Inspect your legs reveals that they two lack bruises.
"Well, lucky me then." Grinning lopsidedly you try to decied whether to tell Haegr about your dream.
What do you do?
A) Tell him right away, you can't contain yourself.
B) Get moving and tell him later, this room is filthy.
C) Don't tell him, it's too wierd and he'd just overreact.
EDIT
Sorry.
B let's get the hell out of the flea infested Roach Motel.
EDIT
Sorry.
Ooooh, a vote switcher huh? We have party whips for exactly this reason.
*WHIPCRACK* *WHIPCRACK*
I intended to pick B from the start, I even had the Roach Motel comment in there originally, but I had the wrong letter!
Stares unconvinced, drumming fingers on the desk. "Ve hav vays ov makingk you tak, Mistar Mikah. Or shud ve say, Mistar BOND!"
Note: I thought the bull would have represented Haegr. He's big, strong, carried her to the coach during her dream-flight. She kind of liked him. I thought it might have been some sort of animism within her dream. But you're correct, this is a family forum... I should have known better.
B, but only because I can't quite convince myself of the other two yet.
Note: I thought the bull would have represented Haegr. He's big, strong, carried her to the coach during her dream-flight. She kind of liked him. I thought it might have been some sort of animism within her dream. But you're correct, this is a family forum... I should have known better.
That's kind of what I thought you thought (but think you thought it through) while dreams can often have meaning, sometimes they're also portals to freaky dimensions. Besides, Haegr would be a bear if anything. Or a walrus.
It's ok. I'm not sure if anyone else gets those "Special" myspace or facebook 'friend request' that always ends "...come check out my website". I thought it was apropos.
Edit: Also, animism is the belief that souls exist in non-humanoid objects (animals, plants, rocks, the ocean). Not entirely what I think you thought you think you said.
Why would anyone use MyFace or SpaceBook when we've got WotC? :P
It was a hoot actually. My wife made me join Myspace. Then I got the flood of 'special friend requests' and she actually got jealous. Naturally, I started pretending I knew these girls (and boys) and told her outrageous stories about them (but that they weren't nearly as beautiful as she).
And who needs Facebook or Myspace when you have....WIZSPACE!!!!!
Gathering up your meager belongings, you wink at Haegr, "I've got something to tell you when we get in the coach." You notice that there is a real spring in your step and thrum of excitment within you that hadn't really been there before. The nasty innkeeper gives you a double take and, in revenge for the look he gave you last night, you stick out your tongue. "Keep your eyes where I can see 'em." And the shocked intake of air from behind you confirms that he hadn't expected that.
You toss your belongings through the door while Ol' Jackney is tending to the horses. You wonder how he manages to always be awake before you, it's uncanny. Nevertheless, you're invigorated. Doubley so once you've left the Inn. Standing on the road, surrounded by forest on either side, you feel like you could run for miles (that sounds quite nice, perhaps you can jog beside the horses). As your belongings thump into the seat you clamber up and in, breathing in air that never tasted so good.
Haegr would seem duely impressed, for if he could shape his features into a question mark he could be no more obvious. Cool morning air fills your lungs with a heady chill. Your traveling companion can seem to stand it no longer, "What's going on Fox? Are you getting ready to play a joke on me or what?" You grin mischevously, maybe you should. "You're just not acting like yourself. Actually, you haven't acted like yourself since Landerton. You've been all over the map, happy, sad, angry, neutral. I don't have any idea how you're going to feel in a hour. Is it that week already?" Assuring Haegr that 'that week' is not to come for a few days yet, and that you will make it abundantly clear to him when it does, you motion him closer.
"I think I've got a piece of the puzzle." Clearly not comprehending, Haegr awaits more, "To why I've been... changing shapes. I had a dream last night, a dream I've had twice since I turned into that big cat. I was in the midst of a dell, surrounded by strange trees with green needles for leaves. The floor was covered in wild flowers of every type and I was sleeping on the back of a great bull." You finish as though this explains everything.
"Was I the bull? Because I might not want to know how your dream ended. No, I've changed my mind, I have to know how it ended." You smack his shoulder and call him a brute.
"It can't have been you, it smelled nice. Anyway, I lay next to the bull for a while, sort of conversing with it." This draws a confused expression from your traveling companion, "not with words of course. I just, saw certain things through it's eyes. Old things, from when the world was very young, before, I think, there were cities and nations. It looked normal size but through it's eyes I got a better picture, it was enormous. It was blue-black and as time went on it got larger and larger. I dare say it peaked twenty-feet tall in it's prime and it's herd ranged wherever it pleased." Haegr remarks that he does not smell.
"Get off it and pay attention. I think it reached out to me because I had changed. I think my changes draw it closer, which is why it came to my dream. It said with visions that, while it had once ruled wherever it's herd set grazed, men came or at least creatures with two legs came and we do, after all, have two legs." You shush Haegr before he can make his dirty joke, "Anyway, it was driven off, and eventually my dream was the best place it could find." At this, Haegr sucks spittle through his teeth.
"You're sure of that, that it came to you because there was no place else for it." You confirm this. "Then I think you've been visited, or are being visited, by what Gran called the Great Spirits." What a surprise, it's your turn to look confused, "You have to understand, in my, or well, Gran's home, at our destination, they don't always hold the same gods near. Some of them revere what she called the Great Beasts and the Great Spirits. The gods are supposed to have slain all of the Great Beasts, but the Great Spirits they banished from this world." You motion for him to hurry this along. If there was ever a tale one heard about the gods, it was about them banish the monsters from the world.
"Well, some of them hold closer to the Great Spirits, mostly the shamans and witch doctors and wise men that I told you about not a day and a half ago. The ones that can change their own shapes-"
"-I woke up with horns," you interrupt him. His dispensation on the past is less interesting than the fact that you did indeed wake up with horns. "And I think if I try I can grow them back!" Haegr looks bemused. "What, it's true, I woke up with great big bull horns. And no, before you say it, you've never woken up with great big bull's balls, not a single day in your life."
"As I was saying, I think..."
What do you do?
A) Try and learn what you can from Haegr. His Gran's stories could bear fruit.
B) Interrupt him by growing horns. That's, if you can actually manage it.
C) Ask questions about specific things he's already mentioned that are relevant to your situation.
Vacation is going great. Just saw the Tech-NC State game.
Edit:
Sorry, didn't mean that. I meant to say C.
So C, final answer.
B. My Avatar has horns, so I have to go with that one.
Edit: Changed my answer
Ah goody, everyone pull up a chair. A-way we go.
“As I was saying” Haegr continues, bemused, “Gran says the Great Spirits still touch the world through shamans and witch doctors; that it’s them that give those people the power to change their shape.”
“Go on Haegr,” you encourage him, “I’m sorry for my bull-horned outburst. What else does she say?”
He smirks slightly and again you warn him off the subject of bull’s balls. “Well, she tells it a lot better, and usually she’s doing it to explain why everything I do is wrong, but I still remember a lot of it. Gran says that before we built cities and towns and walls, especially walls, the world was vibrant and primal. Every creature new it’s place in the hierarchy of nature or the Great Chain. Rabbits knew they were meant to be eaten, but not after forcing a chase. Wolves knew they were meant to shy away from bears, though they were often uppity. She said that wolves were the first traitors, because they were the first to form civilizations. ‘Wolf Who Is Canny’ was one of the Great Beasts that became a Great Spirit; he’s the villain in a lot of tales as is Bull Who Charges. But everyone knew where they stood right up until the advent of man. We stood in the middle of the chain, though no one knows exactly what the chain is, we were above Rabbit Who Leaps but below Bear Who Is Strong and Tiger Who Is Striped.”
“Gran says that we did everything the way we were meant to, chasing Rabbit Who Leaps and fleeing Tiger Who Is Striped, for a long time. But then we started throwing rocks then sharpened sticks. By the time we conquered fire, which had once belonged only to Dragon Who Is Master, we broke our link in the Great Chain; built cities and ultimately walls. Tiger Who Is Striped could no longer eat us, yet we still hunted Rabbit Who Leaps and Bull Who Charges. The world, the vibrant, primal world, began to unravel. The Great Beasts waned and civilization slew them, banishing their spirits from the world. Without the Great Beasts, the world began to unravel slowly. The Gods, idols as Gran calls them, tried to change the world but it rejected and swallowed them. When it found them to bitter to consume they were cast out in great eruptions into the sky, where they could do no more harm. She says that’s why we have the seven moons, which if you remember, each belonging to one of the idols.”
“The world unraveled without the Great Spirits of the Great Beasts to bind it together with the Great Chain. That was the cataclysm, which the priests called Armageddon. Gran says the Great Spirits now inhabit the Fyrna,” You poke your head out the window and stare upward, seeing the great shimmering ocean of stars above you in a new light, “where they work to heal the world and draw themselves back into it. Gran is always excited, always proclaiming that the Great Spirits would return to rebalance the world soon.”
He looks askance at you, “I know, the priests say it is the waiting place of the dead until their particular god comes to collect them. Gran just thinks its hogwash. She says the spirits of the dead reach the Fyrna where they are returned to the world in falling stars and absorbed back into the Great Chain.”
You return his askance look, “A lovely story, but how does that affect me?”
Haegr smiles, “Fox, I think you saw Bull Who Charges, he may actually inhabit your dream world. Wolf Who Is Canny and Bull Who Charges were the first of the Great Beasts to make civilizations of themselves. Wolf Who Is Canny taught civilization to Lion Who Is Mighty. Bull Who Charges taught Horse Who Gallops the same. They say man learned civilization from Horse Who Gallops and Wolf Who Is Canny’s lesser cousin, Dog Who Is Devoted. Thus, they gave rise to the civilizations that unraveled the world. So while all the other Great Spirits now inhabit the Fyrna, Wolf Who Is Canny-“
“-You can just call him Wolf, and the others as well, I think I get the picture.”
“Ok, Wolf, Horse, Bull, Lion, and Dog are barred from the Fyrna; stuck here to inhabit the dreams of shamans, greatly diminished from their old selves by man’s rule over them. Except for Wolf, who supposedly still hides in the world. I think Bull has inhabited your dream, partnered himself with you. I think that’s why you change suddenly, why you are so different from the servant you were, Fox.”
“And,” you finish for him “I woke up with horns this morning.”
“Yes, have you considered, perhaps, changing into a Bull? The witch doctors and shamans who claim to have been touched by one of the remaining Great Spirits are said to be truer representations of the spirit when in that shape. Many never use a different shape.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in trying. A bull could be quite useful in some ways. But when, Haegr? A bull, especially one so massive as you suggest, would not fit in our coach.” He chuckles and you giggle.
“Perhaps when the horses are given rest to water themselves next? We could see if you can pull the coach.” Images of you mightily tugging the coach along fill your head. Indeed, you doubt that you would notice eight coaches, let a lone one. A thrumming begins deep in your veins as you consider it.”
“Yes, I think I could.” Haegr ought to be excited, but he looks nervous and shifty-eyed. “What’s wrong Haegr? Something got your stomach up?”
He peers out the window briefly, “You may need to do something uncomfortable when we get to Gran’s homeland.” You stare expectantly at him. “They don’t revere the Gods that the priests proclaim as heroes at Barridurn’s Watch. In fact, many people think them to be devils of a sort, sent to mislead man away from his proper place in the Great Chain, devils that seek to unmake the world. You might have need to deny the Gods entirely. I’m, well, I don’t know where you stand with that, but missionaries aren’t well loved outside of the largest northern cities. Several of the Gods’ names are used a curse words, especially among those peoples we might meet upon the road.”
The thought sinks into you before he continues, “Even more amongst shamans and witch doctors.” You’re not sure why you’d care what they think, as isolated as they are, until you look at Haegr’s face.
“You think I should meet them? Ask about changing?”
“I think you should seek out the People Who Charge. Bull’s people. They aren’t that far north, according to Gran, but much farther west than our destination. My thinking is that the Duke won’t know how long it takes to get his moss, and won’t care so long as it arrives before he reaches the Fyrna.”
You think about this for a while, before returning to his original question. You aren’t quite sure how you’d react to denying the Gods of Civilization. The Gods whom the priests claim saved men from the savage monsters of the wilds. It would even appear that these people worship those same monsters which the Gods’ were said to have slain for your protection. Even their people seem to think their Great Beasts were monstrous creatures that preyed upon men, and you’re not entirely sure you’d want them back.
How do you answer Haegr?
A) I’m sorry Haegr, I can’t just deny the Gods because the people we meet do.
B) Its fine Haegr, I can lie about it with ease. Just don’t expect me to participate in some freaky ritual.
C) I don’t mind denying the Gods Haegr, they haven’t done much for me in the way of miracles anyhow.
D) Deny them? Hell Haegr, it sounds like I’m tied to the Great Spirits one way or another, I’d be happy to cast my lot with the Great Spirits.
Vacation was nice, I have great In-Laws who are rather taken with me.
Also - you can take yourself over now back in RA - welcome back
I say A. She's demonstrated that she's not exactly afraid of conflict.
Btw, welcome back Jonathan_Vagabond, I've been lurking here since the beginning and I'm really enjoying the story. Keep up the good work
"Deny them?" you laugh, "Hell Haegr, it sounds like I'm tied to the Great Spirits one way or another, I'd be happy to cast my lot with the Great Spirits." You're all grins as you kick back and rest your feet on the bench beside Haegr. You notice that he has begun fidgeting nervously. "What's wrong? I just promised I'd keep us out of trouble with and Gods nonsense."
"Fox, I only asked you to lie about it, maybe just lie by omission, not to take up the cause. Gran may think differently, but those Great Spirits were monstrous beasts that thought of us as little more than prey. And that's Gran sugar-coating things!" He won't meet your gaze, "I don't think you should be so quick to join them."
"Well what am I supposed to do then, hm? One of them is living in my damned dreams Haegr, it's not like I can just shoo him off. What do you expect?" Haegr's admonishment hurts. You were getting kind of excited and now he won't even support you. "You're the one that said Bull Who Whatevers partnered himself with me, picked me for his she-shaman."
"Women are just called shamans."
"Shut up!" You're very near to tears, or goring him, and he's correcting you. "You hand me a damned explanation for everything, a practical, understandable, easy explanation for what's going on and then want me to just say no? Sorry, reason I'm turning into murderous beasts, but Haegr doesn't think you make good friends! I have to go to my damned room now and pray for forgivenes." As he opens his mouth to speak you shush him again, "You know what Haegr, you're doing a damned good job of working me up. Why don't you go sit with Ol' Jackney."
Slump shouldered and droop mouthed, Haegr crawls out the door and up onto the top of the coach, presumabley to occupy the seat with the coachman. "You weren't actually supposed to go you lummox." You didn't say it loud enough for him to hear though, if he cared he wouldn't have gone. Or he'll come back. Or something. Jerk.
To keep yourself from sobbing uncontrollably, you turn your attention to 'great spirit matters'. You try to grow horns, just horns, like you had this morning. Doesn't work. Maybe hooves instead? No luck, but you grow udders. A manic laugh parts your lips as you desperately try to make the go away. They do. Nice, but no desire to do that again.
Surprisingly, you grow cat's claws. "Maybe it's because I feel catty!" followed by another manic chuckle. You lay your head in your hands to weep but prick yourself with your sharp claws. A symetrical patter of three dots, on each side of your face, bleeds lightly and you surrender to the urge to cry. Damnit damnit damnit.
Droplets of blood mix with tears running down your face you are absolutely sure you look a terrible mess, but you can't stop crying. That's twice he's betrayed your trust, right after he offered you a chance to really get it.
Oh, now the bull horns grow. Great. Just flipping dandy.
***
A few hours later you're back to your human self. Ol' Jackney is letting the horses water and graze. Hiding your face from view you make your way over to the river, intent on washing the bloody mess of your otherwise unremarkable visage. Haegr stops to talk to you but you shuffle past, head in your hands, and vigorously scrub at your skin. The blood comes off, though you reopen one of the scabs while you do so, leaving you your normal servant self.
"Fox?"
"Shut up!"
"Ok" he mutters.
The flash of irritation passes over and through you and is gone. Haegr has his beliefs, he's free to stick to them all he wants. You, you've finally got an answer and there's no way your letting go. Great Spirits, here you come! You move past the horses and behind the coach where Haegr cannot see you and pursue your original plan.
Not that you aren't worked up, its a little easier. Although it hurts this time, which it hasn't done before. The uncomfortable stretching feeling envelops your skull as the horns grow. You feel like your getting punched in the nose repeatedly as you grow a snout. Someone is pulling and stretching your legs, bending them awkwardly, jerking your back until it falls into place. Bloating, massive bloating in your chest followed by a great weight being hung upon your bones. You're so damn heavy right now it's impossible to move. You slowly lower to the ground but catch yourself. Fire runs beneath your skin and you cry out. "Mrrraaaagghh!" That doesn't sound right. You might be doing this wrong. Suddenly the weight is lifted off your bones, infact, you don't really weigh anything at all. You paw at the ground, only to stomp it with your hoof.
Pointedly ignoring Haegr, you amble over to the river to get a look at yourself and promptly catch your horn on a tree. It takes some finagling but you untangle yourself. The tree is leaning. At this point, you realise you're looking the horses in the eye. Peering into the slow moving river you see you masculine bovine face and your wicked horns. There'll be no messing with you then. You turn to show your magnificence off to your traveling companions to find yourself even with the top of the coach. Haegr and Ol' Jackney stare in amazement.
"My Gods Fox, you're huge!"
You mentally note that he didn't mean it the way it sounded. You bellow, though not loudly. The horses look around nervously for a second before settling down. They seem quite taken with you and move closer. It's a bit like having a herd.
His brow beating at your hands forgotten, Haegr tries to communicate with you. Pantomime... he's not very good at this.
Do you
A) Try to establish a code through which you can talk. Number of Moo's and that sort of thing.
B) Just return to human form. It will be easier to work out that way.
C) Laugh, he looks ridiculous like that.
The change back is equally painful. Oh Gods (you have clarity enough to wonder if you should think "Oh Great Spirits" instead) does it hurt. Actually, you lay curled up on the ground. Even when the last hair of your hide is gone you feel covered in bruises. Haegr fusses over you like a goose over a gosling but you pull yourself to your feat under your own power. "I'm fine Haegr. And I haven't stopped being mad at you." He looks like he's about to say something mean, "not all the way anyhow. Can we just, I dunno, travel in quiet companionship for a while?"
"Fine," he says, "I just wanted to tell you that you're enormous and probably strong enough to pull the cart." Begrugingly he adds, "also congratulations."
The next few hours pass in silence.
***
Prior to your arrival at Gorsmeet you have forgiven Haegr. Drawing on the fire from your statuette, you've stitched Haegr's blanket into a cloak, which turns out to have been a fairly simple thing to do once you added sharp vines to your definition of needle and thread. He hasn't noticed that his name is facing out, which you think is a marvelous joke.
Rolling into town well before dusk, you see Gorsmeet is a much more urban place than Landerton. "I's a tradah's village, lassy," Ol' Jackney informs you, "buncha 'em wot wants ter be makin' gud fer bus-i-ness. Whens yew wants somfin up special an' like, Gohsmeat's a gud place fer yer bus-i-ness an awl." You come closer to understanding the wrinkled man more and more each day.
The town looks to be 70% Taverns and Inns and probably 25% bureaucracy. Although you've got coin you're not entirely sure there's anything you're in the mood to go bartering, especially since you're going to need to pay for the inn and food at some point.
You're biggest decision now is which Inn you choose to stay in.
A) The Crestless Shield
B) The Marked Deck
C) The Bloodied Dragon
D) The First Inn (on which the back of the sign reads) The Last Out
And, it's got the least dangerous, or bad joke sounding name.
(If not, D)
Our little Primalist is getting all grown up
-Sarena
You start heading for the First Inn, it appears reputable enough, though virtually identicle to every other inn. "Haegr, are these actually separate inns or illusions?" That bit of humor lightens up everything as the last trace of old tension falls away.
"They're Lord is a big fan of conformity, Ol' Jackney tells me. He's got a council that has to approve anything that goes up, or comes down, in Gorsmeet. The only thing he says their proprietors get to choose is the name and the sign. Only the sign has to be approved too."
Sounds like madness to you. Gotta stretch your wings and all that. You quickly glance at your hands. Comforted that they have not, indeed, turned into wings you step through the door and consider regretting your previous position. It's clean, fresh straw on the floor, wiped down tables, solid chairs, and everything smells wonderful. "I've changed my mind, it's not so bad."
"Prices are though," Haegr warns you, "apparently they pay a tax to the Lord for each customer. But they don't really pay it, we pay it." You fondle your meager bag of coin.
"Oh."
Approaching the bar you smile at the over thirty, heavy set man in a cloth apron. His moustache is long and well kept, as is his head freshly shaved. He carries himself with a jovial, friendly demeanor, and a glimmer in his eyes. "Hello good Innkeep, how much-"
"One gold," he barks, "and another for food!" The friendly demeanour evaporates. Your jaw drops. That's ridiculous. Your temper slips a little.
"You're out of your bloody skull! I'd buy a shack in town for the night with a gold churl (you're careful to use the name of common coin, lest you be marked a target again) and there's no one alive who cooks food worth half that! Come on Haegr, we'll find another in."
"Prices is fixed missy, compliments of the Lord. One gold churl here, one gold churl everywhere." You can't believe he could make his face that sour. It's so pinched you think his eyes might disappear. Haegr has become visibly cautious.
"Fox, don't lose your temper, you know how it goes when you lose your temper." He turns you forcefully to look him right in the eyes and he mouths the words 'cat' and 'eyes'. You close your eyelids and take a moment to shape them properly. It's a hell of a struggle and your eyes water up, but when you open them again he assures you that they right. "Look sir, we don't have that coin, not even amongst the three of us."
His face unpinches a little, "then we'll work something out. You sweep, stitch, or work carpentry?" You look perplexed, and still outraged, "Lord says we can perscribe a discount of our fitting for work done." Realization dawns on you, but it doesn't calm you down.
"Free labor for you then and you knock it down to a reasonable price, eh? Hell of a racket you..." you can't think of an unpleasant enough word, "...bastard." Haegr pulls you a little closer and you force yourself to calm down. A little. You've pricked your tongue upon your teeth, which means they're quite a bit sharper than they ought to be. You keep your mouth closed as you think about it.
Face unpruned, the Innkeep actually looks distraught. Perhaps he's not crabby because of you. On drunk offers to pay for your room in exchange for what he calls 'services', waving his hips around so wildly that he actually strikes another patron with them. A uniformed man appears out of nowhere and directs them outside. Patrons gather to watch the fight unfold in the street. Mind still tumbling, Haegr leaps on the chance to explain, "We are in the employ of and performing a service for the Duke of Barridurn's Watch. We're still in his lands, are we not?"
Oh, hey, why didn't you think of that. Damnitall.
"Unless you pay in chonts, it doesn't count." You can't whip your purse out fast enough to flash the silver chont in his face. "Oh, well, um... nobles... discount?"
The uniformed man that stepped out of nowhere returns from the doorway. In a monotone, exceptionally bored voice he intones, "Nobles and those on direct business for said Nobles recieve a discount of no less than three quarters, up to and including the possiblity of free room and board at the Innkeeper's expense." He looks hard at the Innkeeper.
As the once pruney man begins to squirm you feel a little bad for him. On the other hand he was kind of a jerk though and you've only got sixty-two sliver chonts left.
Do you
A) Offer to pay 3/4's of the price, even though that's still 25 silver chonts each.
B) Compromise, offer normal upscale room rates, five silver chonts for a room.
C) Press the advantage, push for room and board in exchange for a little sewing and stitching.
D) Give him hell, point out how the Duke isn't just a noble, and demand free room and board.
I added what could be considered a crucial detail (your current coin-purse depth). If you'd like to change your vote Z_B, you're more than welcome to.
Hrm. Considering that, let's go with C. I hate the idea of workin' for the punk, but I still think any offer would be better than demanding a free ride.
-Sarena
I go with C - (as the work may turn up some additional information) provided that the work can be fit in with our current schdule. if not, I say B
There was an additional detail that could have been useful - timeframe.
I go with C - (as the work may turn up some additional information) provided that the work can be fit in with our current schdule. if not, I say B
You've got plenty of time to do some sewing and mending. You did arrive before dusk and you're planning to stay the night.
Then C - with eyes and ears open :D
I can admit the potential bonus in this. C it is.
Edit:
C because of new info.
You step deftly before the uniformed man. What can you say, you know what it's like to be a servant under the thumb of the Head of Servants... er... local Lord. "How about I just do the sewing and mending and we'll call it even, alright? You can bring me everything that needs stitching at our table." You smile your prettiest smile which, with your teeth no longer sharp, is actually quite charming.
The guard, in his uniform, is rather startled that you make the offer. "Madame, would you not prefer free room. His Lordship is most happy to make his city of comfort for nobility."
Whoa whoa whoa! You catch yourself before you say anything stupid. He seems to think it's just Haegr on orders! You mutter something about 'woman's work' and 'nervous fingers' and 'enjoying embroidery'. He takes this sudden change of tune with ease. Women are a flighty, effervesent gender after all and you're of no mood to disabuse him of his beliefs.
As the guard returns to his post you offer the Innkeep an understanding smile, which he does not return, and take a seat at a corner table in the tavern. A folded pile of clothes, linens, drapes is set at your feet as you await your food. Though it all seems to be going well at the moment, you can't calm down until Ol' Jackney returns and everyone is in their places. Tension eases away from you as your food arrives and you begin 'sewing'.
You make a show of flitting about the the needle (such a show that Haegr scoochs his chair away from you) but you never meant to use it. Humming softly you reach for the warmth, surprised to find it coming from your belly (the statuette is in your pouch after all...). The linens remember that they were once flax and grow according to your directed will and motions. For fun you do a little embroidery and it's a good bit easier than it ever was before. When you finish the first of your linens, it is so expertly stitched it appears never to have been broken and, for kicks, it has a beautiful raised floral pattern.
Haegr snatches a leaf sprouting from the table and hides it from view. You pull yourself back in a little bit.
The next is a heavy comforter of wool that leaves you confused. Can wool be made to grow of it's own accord? You try, a few different ways even, but nothing works. Haegr chuckles "oh dear, real work then is it? To bad you're not a sheep." The mischevious look that touches your face has Haegr begging you not to do anything foolish.
Like that'll happen.
You concentrate on your fingers, pulling on the heat in your belly. As opposed to before, you take extra caution to ensure nothing grows anywhere else. You sit very still for some minutes, long enough for your food to cool, as you grow a soft, downy wool from the underside of your hand. It wiggles through the comforter, tugging on fellow strands and adjoining them to your hand. Continuing to make a flashy show of needlework, to distract anyone over interested, the pills and holes and stains (stains! you can unstain stains!) disappear. You daren't try anything so complex as the- yes, yes of course you do! Slowly but surely, as though through skilled needlework, a magnificent fox spreads across the heavy blanket. You finish and take a chance to eat some food.
Haegr begins whispering, "You're being a little reckless Fox, someone might take notice."
"If they do, I think we can deny it wholeheartedly and they'll look like a buffoon." You reply. Haegr smiles, perhaps he hadn't thought of that. You just wish your food was a touch warmer. Oh well, the exhiliration from your success is enough. You take a piece of bread to dip in the soup when Haegr snatches your hand.
"Sorry m'lady," he says "looks as though you stuck yourself. Let me apply a poultice." The patrons turn to ignore his antics, allowing him to whisper, "look at yourself Fox." You do, the wool is still on your palms. "You know what Gran said about hair palms?"
"I don't want to." You whisper back. It takes a great deal of effort but the wool retreats and you return to eating. The soup is very nice, especially soaked into the bread. Still not worth a gold coin of any make.
At that moment a loud noise is heard at the entrance of the tavern. A massive, bare chested man walks in. Where Haegr might resemble a bear, this man is a lion; all muscle, sinew, and mane. A great blade is strapped to his hip in a fur scabbard and golden hair falls from his head. Every feature of his face looks to have been chiseled in rock, as (to your blushing cheeks note) is his torso. Two other men file in behind him, one more akin to Haegr's bulk, the other a shorter and likely maturing version of the statuesque man.
"Aleman!" he bellows, looking about the bar, "Aleman! We seek drink, food, and lodging, but mostly drink!" You notice that his pants are crafted of fur, likely a sheep or a goat, but possibly wolf. Taking him in as a whole, you'd bet on wolf. Haegr's face turns sour and he makes disparaging remarks about the man under his breath.
You can't see what he's complaining about.
The Innkeeper appears from the kitchen, about to give his sour faced "One Gold!" routine but thinks better of it. He looks to the guard, who nods, and walks over to the walking dream man... err... the barechested man's end of the bar. "Food for fifteen silver, a room for twenty."
"Finally!" You've begun to wonder if his voice has a volumn other than bellow. "We three shall eat and drink and be merry. A room will suffice!" he turns to his companions, "for you can sleep on the floor! Haha!" You try desperately not to stare. It doesn't work. Haegr is growing flustered.
The big bear of a man looks about the room and you have enough time to avert your eyes before he notices you. The bare-chested man tosses a pair of golden coins, which kind you cannot tell from here, to the Innkeeper and takes a table (oh my gods!) next to yours.
Only, not so much. Sitting right here you feel something radiating out from him. Some kind of fiery warmth that... drives you mad! You don't want to jump on him, you want to jump him! Throw him out. Trample him under foot and declare your dominance. Your Inn, your territory, you were here first, no one is as strong-
-and he turns to stare you in the eyes. Maybe you're not the only one who smells a challenge. His eyes are definedly leonine for a moment before he pulls his chair over to your table. You casually note that Haegr is none to happy about this. You lay a hand on his arm and he calms down; you, on the other hand, become more riled up.
He sniffs the air and (oh my god!) sniffs at you. The guard is turning green for fear of having to attempt to arrest old shirtless and chiseled if you should raise a fuss. "So," he says, "you belong to the People Who Charge." His neck flexes as he talks, "You don't look like the People Who Charge. Especially you," he indicates Haegr, "you look like one of Gulfaer's younger brothers."
WHAT DO YOU DO?
identify the species
recall Haegr's Gran's stories
if she can identify it.. let him know he smells like those who XXXX
He's identifies our girl here as Not Predator... If he only knew.
-Sarena
There isn't but one people other than the Ones who Charge, IIRC. Predators and Not Predators.
He's identifies our girl here as Not Predator... If he only knew.-Sarena
The bigger question will be whether he's from Lion who is mighty (my hope), or wolf who is canny.
Bull seems to be one of the older, so it may get us some "leverage", but Wolf is the villain. The description so far, however, indicates Lion. (more likely, in my opinion)
sniff him, but don't show any fear. after that buy him some more beer or preferably something much stronger. A drunk opponent is a dead one I always say
And why do you always say that?
Just to make sure I've got everybodies' vote straight. The idea is to 'feel him out' and 'talk without showing fear'. Yes?
But yeah that's the consensus. I still say she needs to buy him some more booze though. If nothing else it might get us in his good graces.
Sniff and talk. So Say We All.
-Sarena
So say we all.
You inhale the brawny man's scent. It is vaguely musky, though not the normal male-musk that Haegr never washes, yet not entirely unpleasant. Actually, giving it some thought and touching the warmth in your belly, it smells a bit like a mixture of protection and domination. You have a feeling he would be loyal all the way, but also more of a master than a... why are you considering this stuff? You shake your head clear. You flip flop between playing coy and kicking him out.
"You seem to have me at a disadvantage. Who are your people?"
He stiffens. Oh dear, now you've insulted him. "We Who Are Mighty. I am One Who Is Mighty! Everyone knows the People Who Are Mighty!" Although, it's a little no! Focus on the task at hand.
"I apologize for offending. I am a servant of the Duke of Barridurn's Keep, which sits astride Barridurn's Watch, southeast of here." You know what, let the lion know you have teeth, "I am here at the behest of the Duke himself, official business of the duchy in which Gorsmeet resides." To your surprise, Ol' Jackney nods. You're not surprised that he agrees, just that he doesn't mind defying the big hunk. Well then, it's really only Haegr that's not standing up to him, though you do feel that he's drawing strength from you at the moment. Good enough.
Mr. Lion restrains himself a little, then smile, and guffaws mightily. Does he do anything in a less-than-mighty manner? You smush the thought before it goes somewhere else. This is not like you. "So be it," he commences, "but I could have a use for One Who Charges. With me is Gulfaer, One Who Is Strong and my younger brother, Luruk. I am Danak, One Who Is Mighty. We are heading north, returning to our ancestral homelands after a bountiful romp in the south." Drawing information out of him is taking a lot less work than you expected. "We must pass through the territory of the People Who Charge. And I believe we would be well welcomed if you were with us."
Did you just hear a change in tone?
"Would you accompany us? With the might of myself and my brother, and Gulfaer's strength, bandits would not need to concern you." Danak's smile is definitively leonine. You can feel Haegr's bulk tensing beneath your hand. You don't really blame him, you're all for Bulling Out and giving Mr. Lion a good trampling. You refuse to think of him by a name, Mr. Lion is good enough. Ol' Jackney intercedes.
"We've ought been o'rcome buy bandirts mor'n twoice nao. Tey weren't no prollum for ter tree o' us. Tarvelin' w'out ter talernts for dealin' wit such men's bad for bus-i-ness. 'Ers fife'r'six such men wot hangin' buy thur necks'n'such doon ter road a cupla moles. We dern't harv prollums wit ter liks o' them." Mr. Lion is taken aback, but perhaps he didn't catch that all either. Ol' Jackney has a talent for speaking fast, not communicating any individual words whatsoever but still getting his point across. Gulfaer, you assume on account of lacking any resemblence to Mr. Lion, is staring as though Ol' Jackney were speaking another language. Perhaps he was.
Mr. Lion and party's ale has arrived, sloshing about. Mr. Lion fixes his eyes on her and, before your eyes, it's as though she's gone all melty. She shuffles away quickly, red in the cheeks. Animal magentism you ask? He certainly isn't the kind to take to Mom and Da- why are you going over this. Irritated now, you reach down and touch the warmth of your belly. The urge to rule and dominate rises and counterbalances his, whatever it the hell it is, giving your mind back to you as the beast inside fights the beast outside.
Ol' Jackney wasn't telling the whole truth of it. It was a close call both times. Especially that last. What should you do? You don't know. You finish your meal with haste and make perfunctory repairs to the remaining linens before signalling to Haegr and Ol' Jackney that you'd like to retire to your room. You gather up a key (a key? You've never had a locked door before. Wonderful!) from the Innkeeper and hustle upstairs. You feel Mr. Lions eyes following you, willing you to melt like the barmaid. The warmth turns into fire and demands a challenge! "Gore Him, Gore Him, Gore Him! Pin him to the ground! Trample him with hooves! Rend him with sharp teeth! Poison him with fangs!" it shouts, though you're not sure where it got that last one. Refusing to acknowledge his presence, you make your way upstairs and to the marked room.
The key works as you'd always understood it to. In a chaotic evening this is a moment of calm rejoicing. A key, privacy, even a sense of misplaced ownership. "Take the little victories," you tell yourself. You strip to your undies and don a sleeping robe, settling yourself in the bed.
Sleep comes quickly. Yet another surprise.
***
You awaken laying next to the Bull in the dell. You're on your back, laying in the wildflowers moist with dew. Bull Who Chargse appears to be napping. You wonder what you would do if you had to spend eternity in someone's dreams. Napping probably would fit the bill.
Does he dream as well? "I wonder who occupies your dreams?" Bull doesn't stir to this, but it's of little concern to you. There's a whole dell to explore and no sign of any sort of lion. This is a much deserved rest.
What do you do?
A) Examine the spring.
B) Examine the strange trees.
C) Try to wake Bull and discuss Mr. Lion.
I vote C. Maybe the bull will have some useful advice or something.
And the bull needs his sleep too.
I'll go with C.
-Sarena
I choose A.
(hopefully the bed stays dry :D ).
Quite honestly that never crossed my mind, but, it's a really funny thought.
Looks like we have a tie ladies and gentleman. I will decide it with a coin toss if there are no more votes when I get ready to post.
You sit up from the wildflowers and listen to Bull breathing his deep, rumbling breaths. It occurs to you that, while he might have some dirt on Lion Who Is Mighty, his advice would most likely fall along the lines of 'trample and gore'. Thinking back to how he rose in power, that is exactly what he'd say.
No use getting an opinion if you already know it.
You wander about, hoping you'll have more time in the dell this evening. That's a thought, you look up. Strange needlepointed leaves obscure much of the sky, but it's dark out and stars are shining. So many that you haven't actually got a word for it. Fascinating. You look over at the spring and see the reflection of the stars and... no moons? You look back up, there's the moons. Two of them have peeked over the horizon. Monlorn and Wodlorn by their color and size. You step quickly and lightly over to the still water and look down; no Monrlorn, no Wodlorn, no moons.
Actually, you're no astronomer, but the stars look off. You pick out a few constellations to compare with. They're there, sort of, but in different places. Kneeling down you pause to listen for Bull's breathing. Still deep, rumbling, and most importantly slow. "This is some illusion," you suggest to no one in particular. You extend your arm and touch the cool waters, pushing up to your elbow. You can't feel anything at the bottom (well, you can't feel the bottom) nor is there anything within reach of your fingers. You withdraw your hand and peer curiously at the well.
Actually, everything is a little off. At first you thought it was the ripples from your intrusion but you look strange (well, stranger in the water). The longer you look the more canine features you take on. Muzzle, peaked ears, fur, red fur, black tiped ears, white muzzle, you're a fox! The transformation is complete, so complete that you check your hand to make sure it's not a paw (it isn't). Looking back you see the fox staring mutely at you.
You touch the water again and the fox spins about and darts away. You've never seen something run quite like that. Ducking, weaving, leaping, zigging, zagging, until he stops in a burrow, only it's not his burrow but a snakes burrow. Within the confines of a tunnel no larger than himself (herself?) the fox adeptly dodges the striking of the snake and shimmies past.
Then thunder, great massive thunderclaps that shake the earth. You back out of the tunnel (you, but not the fox) to find seven massive figures, men, staring about. One of them thrusts a scar knuckled hand down the tunnel and recoils in surprise. Six puncture marks, in three pairs of two, dot his burly hand and show signs of swelling. Frustration crosses his features. Behind them a fox, the fox, emerges from a hole and shuffles off into the brush. The men busy themselves with savaging the snake.
You feel incomplete, part of the story missing. You also feel in control.
Who do you follow?
A) The men
B) The fox
C) Try to wake up
Coin toss, eh? Head's we do A, Tails we do C. If the sucker lands on its side she'll be teleported to a modern florida retirement home, dressed as a steampunk goddess, with a bucket full of flourescent moss... Whaddya know, sucker landed on its si- I mean Heads, we check the Spring.
You sit up from the wildflowers and listen to Bull breathing his deep, rumbling breaths. It occurs to you that, while he might have some dirt on Lion Who Is Mighty, his advice would most likely fall along the lines of 'trample and gore'. Thinking back to how he rose in power, that is exactly what he'd say.
No use getting an opinion if you already know it.
You wander about, hoping you'll have more time in the dell this evening. That's a thought, you look up. Strange needlepointed leaves obscure much of the sky, but it's dark out and stars are shining. So many that you haven't actually got a word for it. Fascinating. You look over at the spring and see the reflection of the stars and... no moons? You look back up, there's the moons. Two of them have peeked over the horizon. Monlorn and Wodlorn by their color and size. You step quickly and lightly over to the still water and look down; no Monrlorn, no Wodlorn, no moons.
Actually, you're no astronomer, but the stars look off. You pick out a few constellations to compare with. They're there, sort of, but in different places. Kneeling down you pause to listen for Bull's breathing. Still deep, rumbling, and most importantly slow. "This is some illusion," you suggest to no one in particular. You extend your arm and touch the cool waters, pushing up to your elbow. You can't feel anything at the bottom (well, you can't feel the bottom) nor is there anything within reach of your fingers. You withdraw your hand and peer curiously at the well.
Actually, everything is a little off. At first you thought it was the ripples from your intrusion but you look strange (well, stranger in the water). The longer you look the more canine features you take on. Muzzle, peaked ears, fur, red fur, black tiped ears, white muzzle, you're a fox! The transformation is complete, so complete that you check your hand to make sure it's not a paw (it isn't). Looking back you see the fox staring mutely at you.
You touch the water again and the fox spins about and darts away. You've never seen something run quite like that. Ducking, weaving, leaping, zigging, zagging, until he stops in a burrow, only it's not his burrow but a snakes burrow. Within the confines of a tunnel no larger than himself (herself?) the fox adeptly dodges the striking of the snake and shimmies past.
Then thunder, great massive thunderclaps that shake the earth. You back out of the tunnel (you, but not the fox) to find seven massive figures, men, staring about. One of them thrusts a scar knuckled hand down the tunnel and recoils in surprise. Six puncture marks, in three pairs of two, dot his burly hand and show signs of swelling. Frustration crosses his features. Behind them a fox, the fox, emerges from a hole and shuffles off into the brush. The men busy themselves with savaging the snake.
You feel incomplete, part of the story missing. You also feel in control.
Who do you follow?
A) The men
B) The fox
C) Try to wake up
This has got to be the toughest choice in the story so far. The spring seems to be a glimpse into the past, the headwaters of the river of time. Since there are seven moons (according to J_V's homebrew), I suspect that they're represented by the seven men, the seven gods. Two of the men have already begun their ascent into godhood: Wod and Morn. Wod (I think) has already been bitten by the snake, "Who is Swift" or "Who Bites" (which is it?), and thus begins his influence over trade and wealth. I don't know where Morn is but, I believe the interaction with Fox has already passed as well. While following the men might tell us how the gods came to be and the great spirits came to be no more, I think I want to follow her, the Fox Who is Humble (or Runs, I'm not sure what her descriptor is yet); she might have more to teach then the men. I'm following B) the Fox.
Interacting with the men should tell us which. I vote A.
-Sarena
This has got to be the toughest choice in the story so far. The spring seems to be a glimpse into the past, the headwaters of the river of time. Since there are seven moons (according to J_V's homebrew), I suspect that they're represented by the seven men, the seven gods. Two of the men have already begun their ascent into godhood: Wod and Morn. Wod (I think) has already been bitten by the snake, "Who is Swift" or "Who Bites" (which is it?), and thus begins his influence over trade and wealth. I don't know where Morn is but, I believe the interaction with Fox has already passed as well. While following the men might tell us how the gods came to be and the great spirits came to be no more, I think I want to follow her, the Fox Who is Humble (or Runs, I'm not sure what her descriptor is yet); she might have more to teach then the men. I'm following B) the Fox.
Just for the knowledge of our collective whole, the moons in the night sky are a method of telling time. First through third moon coorespond roughly to 9pm, midnight and 3am, and they're called out by when they rise in the night sky. Time during the day is told by the moons as well, but in terms of eyes (when a moon dots the center of the sun) or thrones (when two mons flank the sun. The orbit of the moons is perfectly in reverse synch with the planet.
Let me paint this picture for you. It's noon, one moon dots the eye of the sun, one moon is setting above the horizon, another is rising in the same general location. Three hours later, 3pm, two moons are set on either side of the sun and two moons are halved by the horizon.
So, it would be inadvisable to assume something other than the time of day, based on which moons have risen. My apologies, as this was unfairly unclear without an explanation. Pitfalls of thinking everyone knows what you know and such.
ShowThis has got to be the toughest choice in the story so far. The spring seems to be a glimpse into the past, the headwaters of the river of time. Since there are seven moons (according to J_V's homebrew), I suspect that they're represented by the seven men, the seven gods. Two of the men have already begun their ascent into godhood: Wod and Morn. Wod (I think) has already been bitten by the snake, "Who is Swift" or "Who Bites" (which is it?), and thus begins his influence over trade and wealth. I don't know where Morn is but, I believe the interaction with Fox has already passed as well. While following the men might tell us how the gods came to be and the great spirits came to be no more, I think I want to follow her, the Fox Who is Humble (or Runs, I'm not sure what her descriptor is yet); she might have more to teach then the men. I'm following B) the Fox.
A. Just for kicks.
And to get this thread back on track.
Shut up and pick your damn answer people.
Just for everyone’s assurances: There are no wrong answers nor are there ‘best’ answers. I once read a CYOA (an actual book) where you were given the choice of being a night operative or a day operative. After choosing night operative, my only two choices lead to a grisly demise. I’m not going to do that to you. Each choice will build naturally upon the story (well, or try to. I’m no Shakespeare).
You follow the fox, slipping through the detritus and brush on the forest floor with a niggling sensation that you know where he (she?) is going. As hard as this sensation tugs, you can’t discern its origin. The fox just arrives in a clearing in the forest, a dell of sorts, with high trees and grass. There, the fox scampers up a series of exposed roots and into a great opening in one of the larger trees.
Inside is a small collection of tidbits, little pieces of jewelry, shiny baubles, glass ornaments, and other things. Curling up on its tiny horde, the fox falls asleep with a self-satisfied smile on its muzzle. As you watch the fox sleep you find it strange that you cannot waken yourself for, quite frankly, the fox is cute but boring to watch sleep.
When it feels as though hours have passed, the fox wakes up. Indeed, it is light outside when he yawns a little yawn and scampers up from his hole. Outside the forest is on fire (What!?). The fox panics, he nips down into the hole and grabs what must be his favorite bauble before dashing off. You’d never realized the majesty of a fox in flight before. He ducks and weaves, leaping over obstacles twice his height. You are then caught be surprise; he leaps over an object but it is apparent he will not make it. His hind legs collide with the log and, as you wait for the fox to crash to the ground with injury, his legs slip through the log and he keeps going.
In your shock it takes a moment to realize you’ve stopped following. You look about, unable to see the fox. A brush of red out of the corner of your eye alerts you. You turn to see the fox to your left. Really to your left.
The fox is in your dream. She (now that you’ve got a better view) is standing atop the sleeping bull, laughing with her eyes, watching you. You turn and approach her; unconsciously touching the spring to ensure you’re, you’re... you’ve lost the word. Awake in your dream? The fox is still laughing with its eyes and holding the bauble in its mouth.
Bull is breathing deep, rumbling breaths, and the fox is riding him as though a sailor on a wave. The fox leans forward and, using her sharp muzzle, tosses your hand atop her head. You rub cautiously and the fox closes her eyes. Slowly, you remove your hand and the she fox drops the bauble into it. You should have at least expected that it would be a fox-faced charm. You fasten it about your neck and hide it within your blouse. The fox is… wait.
Where’s the fox?
***
You awaken in your bed, pleased to find your room unshared by anyone, and push yourself to your feet. You pad about the rough straw mattress in a few circles before settling down and grooming yourself. Breakfast smells nice, some eggs by your nose, perhaps a bit of cooked ham and potatoes. Overwhelming your desire to sleep you leap from the bed and amble towards the door.
The knob is awfully high up there.
Turning about, you examine the room. Everything is awfully high… oh hell, you’ve done it again. You taste hair on your tongue. Looking down you see a tiny black paw. Behind you swishes a gorgeous fox tail. This takes you back to your youth, slaying the fox in the garden fills you with regret. You whimper a little.
You focus your mind on your natural shape (though this shape is coming into question). Two arms, two legs, ten fingers (one the hands only) and ten toes, elbows, shoulders, knees, ankles, hips, freckles, wait, you’re already the right shape. How long have you been human?
You think on the fox, focusing on the tail, the ears, the fee- you’re a fox. You think about yourself, your- a human. This is quick, painless too! You flop between fox and human over and over. Four feet-two. Two feet-four! Yes knocknocknock… oh. Haegr.
“She Who Charges, are you in there.”
Mr. Lion? Seriously, Mr. I’m-Too-Gorgeous-For-Manners is knocking at your door? Crap!
What do you do?
A) Turn into a human and tell him to wait.
B) Turn into a human, dress, and answer the door.
C) Remain a fox and hide somewhere in the room.
D) Out the window with you.
-Sarena
B
No more reading into things. B this time.
, etc, etc, etc, etc (etc).It would be helpful to me, as the writer, to know what you folks think in regards to the story, the characters, and the writing at the moment.
IMO just keep doin' what you're doin'. It's going very well.
That sums it up nicely.
No jumping out the window. I suppose a polymorphing Ben Franklinesque might be difficult to fit into a fantasy tale. But then again, maybe not.
With a thought to turn into a woman again, briefly pining over your lost tail, and don your servant garb. You toss your meager belongings into a sack and open the door, bracing yourself to resist the rippling thews and chiseled features of Mr. Lion. You are surprised then when it is not only Mr. Lion at your door, but his pair of cronies, a slightly disheveled Haegr, and an obviously sour Ol’ Jackney.
Rough hands grasp at your arms and, before you can shriek bloody murder, a heavy musky hand clamps over your mouth. The fact that you are now pressed firmly against a immaculately constructed man does not cross your mind. “Shhh, I mean you no harm.” He says as he forces you back in the room. You resist the urge to giggle at the irony. Haegr and Ol’ Jackney are shuffled in behind you and the door is shut and (curses) locked. “If you scream I will knock you unconscious.” You consider this; his vise like grip suggests that such a feat is within his power. “You will come with us, through the lands of the people who charge, and guarantee us safe passage with your presence. You may then remain with them if you choose, I do not care. Is it understood?”
You shift your eyes about, trying to catch a view of Haegr, but your burly companion is hidden by Mr. Lion’s chiseled abs. Well, what’s the worst that could happen? You get on the open road and kill them all in the form of a ravening bear? Oh wait, reverse that, they kill us and take our money.
You shake your head no.
Apparently Mr. Lion was not expecting this, because he stares dumbly at you. For a second his grip on your mouth weakens. Not something you quite saw coming and the grip reaffirms itself. “What don’t you understand. Come with us now and live or argue and die.” Oh dear, there’s a fire building in your belly. Mr. Lion, it would appear, was also not expecting this. His grip weakens again.
Fool me twice, so on and so forth.
In a blink you’re a fox, clamping down on his corded fingers with sharp and pointed teeth. To his credit, Mr. Lion does not cry out. Snatching at your hind legs you become all woman again. With your thighs being to large to encircle with just a hand, he only paws at your upper leg. You thrust out with a fist, catching him on his knee, as you fall to the floor. With incomparable swiftness he’s on you again. Well, he’s on a fox. With sharp teeth.
Maybe he should have tackled you from the other direction.
A swift bite with your sharp pointed teeth does indeed draw a cry of pain from Mr. Lion; a long agonized howl. Involuntarily he is all golden fur and mane. You're carrying no illusions regarding the ultimate outcome of Lion vs Fox, but you need to grab the initiative. You have an answer: sharp pointy teeth. You choose not to relinguish your horrible grip. The lion thrashes about madly, taking chunks out of your bed and gouging the floor.
The others are waking from their daze. Haegr knocks the youthful brother cold while Ol’ Jackney makes for the door. Mr. Lion’s cohort, the massive hairy man, makes towards Ol’ Jackney only to find himself in some uncomfortable hold by Haegr. Ol’ Jackney figures out the door and is gone, screaming at the top of his lungs.
You release your grip as Mr. Lion tries to make use of his rear claws; darting under the bed and out the other side and becoming woman once more. While Mr. Lion rights himself you deliver a swift punishing kick in the nethers to the man in Haegr’s lock. His struggling weakens appreciably (so you deliver another kick). Too fast for your human eyes, Mr. Lion pounces on Haegr’s back, biting and clawing. Your veins become leaden.
Haegr.
With a terrible bellow you shift forward, there’s little space afforded for you in the miniscule room. Mr. Lion is oblivious to your impending threat until you fill a full more than half of the tiny bedroom. He releases his murderous grip on Haegr and regards you with awe.
Oh crap, you need to stop growing. Like, now.
Haegr begins crawling out of the way. Excellent. You stop growing; though it’s a fairly superfluous thing at this point. There’s barely room for you to move your horns. On the plus side, Mr. Lion in his current, leonine, form cannot escape the crushing pin your right horn has him in and your stocky neck is remarkabley strong. Also, you’re not sure what sort of face a lion wears when it’s scared silly, but you smell something foul and defecatory.
What do you do?
A) Crush him to death.
B) Gore him viciously.
C) Wait for him to make the first move.
D) Change back into a person and bargain from the position of power.
And I'm also in complete agreement with ZB about the feedback you requested.
-Sarena
Alrighty then, we’ll delay our initiative and ready an action to take advantage of Mr. Poopy Lion Pants.
After a few minutes of struggling, Mr. Lion reverts to a human form. He comes close to slipping the weight of your powerful horns but you pin him by his arm. The golden hunk of a man is obviously infuriated. He calls you a treacherous ‘something not very nice’. In response, you bear down harder on the arm; you hear creaking. Still, a red stain is ruining the fur-crafted pants between his legs and he does little more than grimace. Judging by his scent, he needs it treated or it’ll become septic. You’d say he had brass balls if they hadn’t been, well, you try not to think about it.
He takes the sword from his sheath with his free hand and tosses it across the room. Thus disarmed, he clutches his manhood. That seems like a fair enough surrender to you. You release the corded arm from the wall and shrink back to the size of a normal bull. “Please,” he asks “let us escape. It goes poorly for us,” you have the distinct impression he’s referring to shape changers rather than his men, “when the tame folk see us. Let us escape.” Quite frankly, you’ve no idea how he intends to walk, let alone escape, in his current condition. His ursine comrade, who shares his pain, completely ceases his struggles with Haegr (who lightens his hold just barely) and relaxes; you clip-clop over to the corner where Mr. Lion’s sword rests and turn back into a woman.
It hurts this time.
Lifting the (holy crap heavy) sword you examine it. It’s crudely ornamented with gaudy bits and pieces, but definitely of a fine make. You’d bet anything the ornamentation has been added since its forging. Not that you’re sure why you’d bet anything, it just seems like someone who made something so very nice wouldn’t slap such a shoddy trinket on as an afterthought. “Who are you, Danak Who Is Bleeding From The Scrotum?”
You watch irritation flash across his features quickly tempered by a healthy dose of terror. “I am the son of Manak, once king of We Who Are Mighty, exiled by my uncle Thanag. I am returning home to oust him and claim what is mine.” That was certainly a gamble on his part. Trading Mr. Lion in to Thanag would earn you some serious good will from the People Who Are Mighty. Lionfolk, you’re going to call them Lionfolk because it’s a whole lot shorter. And it’s more polite than the “Dimwit Clan”. You file this away, making no comment either way.
“So what is Gulfaer doing with you? He doesn’t look like one of… your people.”
“Gulfaer is from the People Who Are Strong. He has been my friend since childhood, the captive of Vuldaer, their king, as an ambassador to my father. Please, let us make our escape. We will rejoin you upon the road and answer whatever questions you want!” You can hear the sound of boots on the street outside. Peeking out the nearby window you seem a column of nine men advancing towards the Inn.
“It would appear that the lord of Gorsmeet does not appreciate bandits assailing vassals of the Duke, Danak Who Is In A Really Sticky Predicament And Shouldn’t Have Tried To Kidnap A Woman In Her Inn Rooms. What will you give me to let you go for now?”
He screws up his face (it’s not actually unpleasant, he looks nice when he’s vulnerable), “I have nothing but arms and armor. You may keep Luruk has a hostage until we rejoin.”
“You want to give me your little brother? Look at him, he’s barely, I don’t know how barely old he is but I’m not taking a hostage.” Even though he looks a lot more likeable than his brother at the moment, “think of something else.” The both of your hear knocking at the in and the Innkeepers frantic voice.
You peer at him through slitted eyes. Wait, those are probably actually slitted. You change your eyes back and give him a regular angry glare.
What do you demand for his freedom?
A) Freedom? Hah! Guards, he’s up here!
B) Take the brother after all. He’s cute and possibly impressionable (most likely 16, maybe 17).
C) The sword, it will make a nice gift for Haegr
D) Money. You saw the gold he tossed the Innkeep. All of it.
E) Nothing. Get the hell out.
EDIT: I think that asking for nothing and letting them go also shows a sense of confidence that ought to send a serious message.
Besides, unless I'm completely mistaken, it's not like he's going to live very long if the guards do manage to catch him. The injury in question is going to kill him anyway unless he gets real medical attention.
-Sarena
). On one hand, I could see how he might only have resorted to threats and kidnapping because he's desperate, assuming his story is correct. On the other hand, he's proven himself untrustworthy. I'd prefer to get a more detailed explanation, but letting him go means running the (considerable) risk of him not comming back, and demanding one of his allies as a hostage could be risky, plus, it's not exactly a sign of trust of trust or confidence.I'll go with E for now.
You spent a little time describing the sword. I vote C. Haegr's help in subduing the attackers deserves a reward.
Edit: Letting everybody go is the 'nice' and civilized thing to do, but when dealing with those who think "might makes right" (like a natural predator), there are only two positions, strong and weak. We need to show strength. Anything else makes us look like prey.
For one thing, dispite the "misunderstanding", his quest is a worthy one, and being caught by guards would probably jeopordize that somehow. Releasing him like that would also show a display of trust which could serve to be useful later.
But the trust should not be blind and she still needs to show strength or her honor would be diminished by showing total mercy. Futher, the brother was offered. Perhaps in having him she would show her strength to not back down, and later show her wisdom by learning more of herself and of the spirits from Luruk (and giving him back when meeting later).
I feel the sword is fairly important to Danak ("Lion-o"
) in his quest in someway, and taking it would not only be insulting, but would also be inviting trouble later. And money just doesn't seem terribly important to her at the moment.You guys sure are charitable when it comes to the defeated. Will this come back to bite you in your butt, or was it the only way to salvage your safety? Who knows, I sure as hell don’t (or do I).
“Shut up. Haegr, let his companion go.” You turn back to Mr. Lion, “You I never want to see again.” It takes a mighty heave, but you throw the sword (in its sheath) back at Mr. Lion. To further your frustrations, he snatches it out of the air as if it weighed little more than a trowel. Show off.
Haegr releases the great bear of a man, who hobbles a little slowly over to Mr. Lion, places his hands on the “injured area” and mutters incoherently for a minute. The blood still coats his legs, but insofar as you can see, it’s stopped. He didn’t heal Mr. Lion’s torn pants though, you stifle a laugh and remind yourself how serious a situation your in… still… he’s going to be fleeing the city with his bits flapping in the air.
Gulfaer hefts Mr. Lion’s little brother, whose name slips your head for a brief second, and out the window they go. It’s actually quite impressive, watching them scurry and run. “Lay down Haegr.” He begins to protest and you shush him, “I know I’m not good with injuries, but I’ll describe what your back looks like, you can tell me what to do.”
It is thus, with Haegr laying face down on the gouged and battered bed (it would appear you stepped on it, as there is a massive hoof print that goes all the way through the wood) and you fussing over his back, calling his injuries out loud, that the guard storms into the room nine men strong with cudgels and chains. The euphoria of dominance is still surging through you; you cannot resist, “No, thank you though. I’m not in the mood for that sort of thing. A physician would be splendid though.”
A very burly, very hard looking man with stubble on his chin starts demanding answers, to which you reply “I would very much like a physician.” He attempts to play hardball and, well, you play with the hardest… Mr. Lion pops into your head and you loose a peal of laughter, sufficed to say, you take no nonsense from the guardsman and two men are dispatched to collect a physician.
Having dealt with that issue, you set about making Haegr comfortable. “You’ll need water, to wash them clean.” You demand water from the guardsman, who appears as though he intends to argue.
“You. Water. Now.” The stern demand filters through, and another two men are sent for water
“My pack is in the corner, Fox, if you could search if for some of that white powder I would love you forever.” You blush a little bit
“Stop being dramatic Haegr, they’re just teeth and claws.” You shuffle through his pack, noting that he has a number of small bottles, vials, phials, and jugs. Impressive. You find the white powder and carry it over to him.
"Perfect, mix it with enough water to make a paste, sprinkle some of the torn basil on it, and hand it here.”
“I didn’t know basil had healing properties.”
“It doesn’t, the paste tastes awful.”
You turn about, selecting another two men and completely bypassing the guardsman with stubble on his chin. “You two, go downstairs and fetch me a thimble of sugar.”
“What d’yew need tew men t’dew that fer.” The gruff guardsman demands.
“I don’t know, why did you send two men for a physician and two for water?” He heats a little under the collar.
“Buddy system.” He offers lamely.
“Good enough.” The men return with the sugar, having raided the larder as you intended. You pour it into one of the two wooden cups in Haegr’s pack and crush the basil up as well. “How are you feeling Haegr?”
“Like I’ve been mauled by a lion.”
“Eye’ve quest-shuns ‘bout that.” You don’t grace the interruption with an answer.
“Ok, well, what should I do now?” Haegr asks how many men are left, “Right now? Five.”
“Have them press down with some cloth on bleeding wounds.” You move to his neck, kerchief in hand, “be gentle around the neck though.” Truthfully, you’re quite impressed with his knowledge of the human body.
The two men with water return shortly after. You set about to making the paste, perhaps a little watery, and force it down Haegr’s throat. A short forever passes before the physician arrives.
“What the hell did he do?” The prune faced man demands, looking to the guardsman.
“We believe th-“
“-mauled by a lion.” You interject. The physician gives you the stink eye. You give him a predatory glare, which mollifies him somewhat.
“Fine, fine, anything else you done to him?”
“Pressure on the wounds, white paste with sugar and basil."
“White paste?”
“I don’t know, Haegr, what was that?”
“Willow bark.”
“Oh goody, you’ll bleed out before I’ve to do anything.” He sets about tinkering with vials, phials, mortar, and pestle. Before long he got a disgusting smelling yellow paste, with green speckles in it and has the guards rubbing it on Haegr’s wounds.
“What’s that?” He looks as if to snap at you, but remains silent instead. “I’d like to know what my guardian has slathered on his back.” Silent treatment again.
Ol’ Jackney chimes in. “The bottles wos labeled Yarrew, Ladies Mantle, an’ somewot inna language I dun read. I’m supposin’ he won’ tell ye onaccounta givin’ up trade secrets is bad fer bus-i-ness.” The pruney physician looks as if to explode with rage, if not mere irritation.
“You stupid backwa-” another predatory look, with a hint of ferality. Hell, your eyes might’ve changed shape for a minute, though you hope not.
“Less talking” you suggest “more healing.”
Haegr’s back is soon slathered in a menagerie of pastes, ointments, and herbs, leaving you with a bill that the guard promises you will not have to pay.
The gruff guardsman looks a bit less, gruff, now. He begins to ply you with questions, much more gently than before. Perhaps under the impression that you are a noble. There’s been plenty of time for someone to whisper it in his ear.
The question is how do you answer?
A) Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth unless it looks bad for you.
B) Do the same thing, just leave out their names.
C) Explain that it involved a man that could turn into a lion and that’s all you remember.
D) Apologize for your inability to remember anything.
-Sarena
D: Authorities could cause more trouble than not, and you would only end up losing whatever trust you've just gained with "Lion-o". Perhaps she could use some "alternative" explanation (as opposed to simply forgetting): they already believe that she was the "lion" that scratched Heagr; take it a step further (without saying "hey I can change into a lion!")
D: Authorities could cause more trouble than not, and you would only end up losing whatever trust you've just gained with "Lion-o". Perhaps she could use some "alternative" explanation (as opposed to simply forgetting): they already believe that she was the "lion" that scratched Heagr; take it a step further (without saying "hey I can change into a lion!")
I agree with this.
D: Authorities could cause more trouble than not, and you would only end up losing whatever trust you've just gained with "Lion-o". Perhaps she could use some "alternative" explanation (as opposed to simply forgetting): they already believe that she was the "lion" that scratched Heagr; take it a step further (without saying "hey I can change into a lion!")
For fairness, I'd like to point out that Haegr's "scratches" are actually deep, open, and bleeding lacerations, the kind of which one does not find in the bedroom (unless one keeps actual lions in the bedroom, in which case, one is most certainly the exception to the rule.)
D: Authorities could cause more trouble than not, and you would only end up losing whatever trust you've just gained with "Lion-o". Perhaps she could use some "alternative" explanation (as opposed to simply forgetting): they already believe that she was the "lion" that scratched Heagr; take it a step further (without saying "hey I can change into a lion!")
For fairness, I'd like to point out that Haegr's "scratches" are actually deep, open, and bleeding lacerations, the kind of which one does not find in the bedroom (unless one keeps actual lions in the bedroom, in which case, one is most certainly the exception to the rule.)
I'd still like to go with D and offer up an alternative but plausible explanation other than "Hey I can change into a really big cat." I'm just really hesitant to involve the duke's subjects into a tribal disagreement just yet (though definitely later if this story goes the direction I think it will) and doing so may only serve to convince He Who is Mighty that Fox is either duplicitous or cowardly and endanger any future encounters.
D: Authorities could cause more trouble than not, and you would only end up losing whatever trust you've just gained with "Lion-o". Perhaps she could use some "alternative" explanation (as opposed to simply forgetting): they already believe that she was the "lion" that scratched Heagr; take it a step further (without saying "hey I can change into a lion!")
For fairness, I'd like to point out that Haegr's "scratches" are actually deep, open, and bleeding lacerations, the kind of which one does not find in the bedroom (unless one keeps actual lions in the bedroom, in which case, one is most certainly the exception to the rule.)
I'd still like to go with D and offer up an alternative but plausible explanation other than "Hey I can change into a really big cat." I'm just really hesitant to involve the duke's subjects into a tribal disagreement just yet (though definitely later if this story goes the direction I think it will) and doing so may only serve to convince He Who is Mighty that Fox is either duplicitous or cowardly and endanger any future encounters.
That's fine. From your post I thought it possible that you believed the injuries Haegr sustained could have been mistaken for those encountered after an evening of particularily rough lovemaking.
The following sentence could function both as a continuation to the story or as the beginning lines from one of those movies you must be over 18 and in possession of a valid credit card to watch.
“I’m sorry Sir; I can’t remember anything about the last few minutes.” You lie rather convincingly by your own admittance, “It all happened so fast and I couldn’t manage to keep track of it all. I did the only thing a proper woman could have done at the sight of men engaged in battle. I fainted.”
Perhaps the ex-gruff guardsman disagrees with his approximation of your capacity for deceit, “Yew wure very shure, a momen’t agow Miss, that he wus mawled buy a lion. Yew even chastoised yew, er… companion, becaws it wus jest ‘teef an claws’.”
Damn. Double damn even, with an extra helping of Oh Crap. “That’s the way he explained it to me before you arrived.” It’s a long shot, but you put on an impertinent and impatient face. Haegr moans softly over the argument. Steeling yourself, you manage to look down on the guardsman, from the floor. No mean feat. “I awoke in that corner over there,” you point where Mr. Lion’s sword landed, “and helped my bodyguard to the bed. As you can see from his back he was quite in need of assistance.”
The guardsman is unimpressed, but you, drawing upon the memories of the Master of Servants, manage to both inspect and dismiss the guardsman in a single look, returning your attentions to Haegr. “Are you alright Haegr? I’m really worried over you. Now that you’re lying down and mostly immobilized, I don’t mind telling you that you look really awful.”
Haegr moans. Apparently feels about the same.
“Ef Eye could ask yew another few questshuns…” You wave him away, as an after thought, and he apparently accepts it.
“I shan’t be responsible for the damage caused by assailants sir, to be perfectly clear.” It’s surprising you can think about money at a time like this, but practicality seems a part of your nature. You hadn’t even thought before the words spilled from you. Well, bless your quick mind.
It’s just you, the physician, Ol’ Jackney, and Haegr now. The physician is doing his best to work on Haegr while avoiding your presence. Maybe you did throw cat eyes at him. Oh dear. It surprises you then, when he begins to strike up a conversation. “How is Barridurn’s Keep, Madame?” Oh, and such a polite tone. You are immediately suspicious. “I’ve never been to the Duke’s capital. Must be nice.” You mention that it’s nice enough for a keep, warily. “Has a full time physician does he?”
Oh, that’s what this is about.
“Well, he has a seer who is somewhat talented in those magics, for all his lack of talent as a seer.” Play this right and maybe you get lucky.
“His Lord of Gorsmeet covers the expenses of any noble in need of medical attention you know. Of course, what that really means is we go to jail if we dare to charge you. He doesn’t pay us a copper churl for it.” You would suspect he was putting on airs of misery if he hadn’t been such a miserable man from the outset.
You’ll play along, “How terrible for you.”
“Yes,” he bemoans, “of course, magic must be nice for healing, must’n’it?” Subtle as a signpost this one.
“It’s well and good, when you know what the ailment is. Expensive too, I understand it. The servants who come into poor health are expected to deal with it on their own.” You sigh expansively, “of course, the Duke knows how this makes them less efficient. The Master of Servants, an entirely reprehensible sort, bemoans this drop in efficiency constantly. It’s all he can manage to talk about most times.” They aren’t exactly lies, indeed, you know quite a bit about that particular subject. Silently you will him to take the bite.
“You know,” he begins, “physicians are significantly less expensive than wizards for the smaller things. Bumps, cuts, small burns, general illnesses. Probably worth more than a single servant for all they can do.”
“Really?” you fake confoundment, “however so?”
“Well, you see we just use herbs and the like, an occasionally potion here or there, none of that hocus-pocus. Always know our place in life, not like a wizard with heavy ego. That sort of thing.” He begins expounding on an obviously prepared list of the virtues of the common physician.
“I had never considered such a thing. What an interesting idea. Still, you’d need someone with the ear of the Duke.” Please don’t call my bluff. Please oh please oh please!
“Well, madame, if I may be so forward. I could exchange a particular service to you, extra special treatment of your bodyguard if you will, for a physician would never dare presume to treat a noble without being called up, if you would mention my name to the right people.” Good gods, it is quite possible that his avarice has entirely overwhelmed his disgust for you. Nobles have the good life for sure.
“I’d be more than happy to if you could find some way to get my man up and working again.” Haegr emits a long, pained groan. You aren’t sure if it’s the medicine or your acting.
“I’ve a potion! Just the thing madame!” His delight is quite nearly too much for you. The prune-faced man positively glows with his own cleverness. “Given as a gift for healing a young adventurer’s unmentionable sickness afore he returned to his beloved, if you know what I mean;” you do. You also rather wish he hadn’t shared that. “Supposed to be used for just such an occasion, seeing as how adventurers get themselves banged up all the time and whatnot.
Fishing in his box he withdraws an rather elegant bottled, stopped up with a glass impression of the Lady’s Mantle flower. Actually surprisingly elegant. You’d have thought the prune-faced man would have sold it by now. He pushes it into your hands. “Have your man drink this and he’ll be good as new, probably better than before. Don’t forget my name, here I’ll write it down for you.”
He has ink and quill in his bag as well? How long has he been planning for such an encounter. You suppose it’s a way to fill dreary days. He scribbles out his name, street, apartment number, occupation, and where you met him just in case. Whatever, you’ve got the potion.
“Guard, drink this.” You command Haegr. He grimaces, with the distinct impression that it’s not his injuries giving him grief. He swallows the amber fluid and before your very eyes his back knits itself together. There are scars, exceptionally nasty ones, still hanging about. Haegr stretches and looses a gasp of pain. You turn to demand an explanation but the flighty bastard has already slipped out.
Never the less, it worked somewhat.
Ol’ Jackney looks to you for direction. Haegr appears to be mobile again, and another day could be another adventure (and another days rent). But, you’re sure Haegr would appreciate some down time.
What do you do?
A) Take another night’s rest.
B) Get on the road again.
B, as well - though my concern is given lion-o too much prep time.
This.
Double post (unless you count my vote twice) :D
Take your time man. Enjoy being with the family.
On the road again, oh on the road again. Yes... on the road again... that's the only line I remember from that song the road again!
You bid the physician farewell, promising to set his name before the Duke and the Master of Servants at your earliest convenience. The prune-faced codger bows and shuffles out with his bag of implements, murmuring ‘thank-you-so-kindlys’ and ‘a-right-fine-lady-indeeds’. Haegr lifts himself gently from the bed and turns his head to inspect his back. The result is rather comical as he strains and turns.
“You look ridiculous Haegr. But please, keep at it; I’ve had an awful morning.”
“Quit blubbering Fox, you didn’t even get mauled by a lion or kidnapped by that burly oaf.”
“That may be true, but don’t be so harsh on them. I’m sure Mr. Lion had to smell you while he was on your back. I’d go so far as to say you’re even.” Haegr growls something not very nice at all. He smiles a bit though, so not all bad.
“We ought to get more of those potions. I’d drink one every morning for the rest of my life.” He stretches, feeling even better than before. “This is exceptional. It worked so fast. Must have been magic.”
“Really Haegr? Are you sure it was magic?” Haegr is on a foul name streak now, even if he’s speaking rather softly. “Come on then, you giant lunk, lets get ourselves on the road.” He looks at you pleadingly, “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to wait around here for that guard to get a superior who starts asking question or for some other brigand, cutthroat, or sneak thief to pick us out as likely marks. It appears we can’t spend a night at the Inn without facing dangers untold.
“Have too.”
“Doesn’t count, it had fleas. The fleas picked me out as a mark and sucked my blood, so it doesn’t count. Besides, my blood is a lot more precious to me that coin or undergarments.” He looks to argue but you set your jaw and stand firm.
“Wese a loikly to gets ow-selves out o’ th’ Dukes territrey two-day.” Ol’ Jackney offers, “Loikly ter be bad fer bus-i-ness iffen we dun stock up on owr way owt.”
You’ve got jerky, salted pork, hard-tack, and dried fruits enough to be well fed for a week, or peasant-fed for two. Other than the food and the clothes though, you haven’t got much. A beautiful bow and about two dozen arrows, your knife, what Haegr’s packing you’re not entirely sure, poultices and herbs most likely. “You think we’ll need more than a week’s worth of food?” He nods slowly. You turn to Haegr, who shrugs his shoulders. “You’ve made this trip before have you, Jackney?” He nods slowly again.
You gather up your belongings and trundle down the stairs and out to the coach. The Innkeep gives you the stink-eye on your way out. It appears he’s heard of the damages to his room.
Dropping your loads in the coach (Haegr included), you follow Jackney out to the market. There are a decent number of mongers about, though you don’t know well enough who’s trustworthy and who isn’t. You sniff about for the best and least rotten foods with a masterfully keen nose.
Surprise surprise, they’re the most expensive too.
You splurge five silver chonts worth of food, buying all your provisions (three weeks worth no less) in a single purchase from a single merchant before the make of your coin can spread around. As the chonts spill into her hands she curses herself a fool and recovers brilliantly.
“If I’d have known your ladyships nature I’d have offered you better prices. But seeing as how you’re such a fine lady, I’ve a special bit for sale which you might find appealing. She draws out a small necklace, a fine silver chain attached to a silver figurine of a small oak leaf, upon which are two garnet acorns. It’s quite lovely, and the lady is only asking three golden chonts for it. A remarkable price really, you suspect that, if it is silver and the garnets are indeed garnets, it’s worth four or five times that. “Said to be magical m’lady. Meant to keep one from ever getting lost in the woods like. But of course, things of beauty surely fall into your ken, don’t they?”
It’s gorgeous, but three gold chonts is more than half your monies (now only 58 silver chonts) and would leave you with a mere 28 silver chonts. On the other hand, if it is magical it’s a steal, worth twenty or thirty times what she asks for it on principle.
What do you do?
A) Snatch it up before she ups the price.
B) Haggle, knowing that you have to have it.
C) Haggle, knowing you haven’t got much.
D) Walk off, apologizing for your lacking interest.
We don't have much in the way of funds, unless we become Brigands ourselves. And robbing people on the highway isn't all that profitable.
I think the next line in the song was it gets hard on the road again but don't hold me to it. I have not heard that song since I was 7. And I am 24 now.
C
-Sarena
On the Road Again by Willie Nelson
One, Two,
One, Two, Three, Four.
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is making music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again -
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends.
Insisting that the world keep turning our way and our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is making music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
Not buying the magical shtick eh? As you wish, as you wish. We Continue the tale.
You counter the stall lady's offer with something a good bit more reasonable, she she will not budge nearly far enough to make it worth your while. Even as you walk off she heaps compliments and exhortations upon you. You're apparently a beautiful women who's skin would go perfectly with the necklace. You could be mistaken for a goddess with a smile (well, that might be true, but you're not sure if there's a goddess of turning into animals and mauling people). So on, so forth, and you reluctantly part ways with the necklace.
Saddling your burden of foodstuffs you stomp back to the coach to find Haegr snoring loudly just past the coach door. You consider waking his smelly frame to do work, but on the other hand, he's probably very tired. You and Ol' Jackney (not much help that one) load the food onto the roof and rear of the coach before you open the door to climb in. Haegr's snores are actually louder with the door open. Surprising since it has a square window with only a drape for a cover. You instead ride up top with Ol' Jackney.
He urges the masterful horses away from the inn and out the wooden walls of Gorsmeet. "Good luck tha' wos," he confides, "Gohsmeats a nice enuf place fer sittin', but not fer sittin' long. Bad fer bus-i-ness ter be cot tew long. Lohd thehe's got a long ahm and greedy hungah fer ter wealf of any'un who ain't 'im."
You decipher most of what he's saying, "I noticed that what with the mandatory gold piece fee for a room. Jackney, what's next on our trip?"
"Bodah to a smawl fiefdum."
"No," you shake your head, "I mean what will we run into next? We've had bandits, brigands, horse thieves, sneak thieves, kidnappers... Is it usually like this, a nightmare of people that want to rob, kill, or carry you off?"
"Naw. Whal, sumtoimes. Usually jes wif ter pretty ladies. 'Ceptin' theys mostly rowyalty, sose they's a gahd fer 'em." He hocks something positively disgusting and sends it flying off the coach and a good distance to the side. The old codger actually looks quite pleased with himself, "Pretty fah that'un. Dun't nohmally get that fah wifout a rich dinnah loik. Oh, jammering such as we is, I segest ye dun flash them chonts whehe we gone. Roit bandit king the lohd ah this fiefdum is, ownly in powah on account ah him howlden back any raidahs frum ter norf and bein' happy ter do it."
You blink slowly, calculating what he is most likely to have said. "Right, no chonts. How can we buy room and board though?"
Ol' Jackney smiles (he has wretched teeth and a breath to match) "S'wot we bought mosta thah food fer. Peasant theyh dun get coins loik, not even a chuhl. Theys the sohts wot trad in food an ter loik. Bad fer bus-i-ness ter pass frough theh wifout sumpin ter trade fer."
You see the coachman in a new light. He's no warrior, you've seen that on several occasions, nor a handsome man, not even in his youth, but he's a canny traveler. You place Ol' Jackney two notches higher in your opinion. "Thank you Jackney, you're a master coachman." He grins and hocks another. You can't help but watch it fly and fall just off the coach.
"Cot on my lip, that'un." You hold down your stomach.
***
Three hours later you are in the coach alongside Haegr, who has awoken. You've tended to it as per his instruction but there is nothing but scars and a little tenderness. He averted your eyes while he changed out of his blood soaked breeches into a fresher pair, suggesting your party do laundery at the next river. You laugh when you realize his new breeches are a touch too tight about his waist, a fact which he bemoans.
"They fit a year ago." He mutters, scowling.
"Perhaps the Huntsmaster shrunk them as a prank. Ooh! Or perhaps one of the gods saw fit to send you a message: 'Haegr, thy girth is alike to the love of the Gods, always overflowing.' He swats at you and misses. "Oh, I know, the horse theives stole your breeches and replaced them with a girls!"
"Shut up Fox! This isn't a laughing matter."
You disagree. By laughing.
"Damnit, they fit, I swear they fit."
"Of course they fit, its you that doesn't." You clutch at your stomach as it begins to hurt from laughing.
"I fit just fine, these are someone else's pants. Probably yours!"
"Oh, I don't know Haegr, mayhap if I'd been pregnant the last eight months."
"I am not that-"
"With a castle!"
"That's it, come here. I'll give you a right beating!"
"Even if you could catch me you couldn't manage that!" You squeel in delight at your cleverness
Despite the confines of the coach you swiftly elude the growling man. "Come on Haegr, is there something in the way? There's not wall between us." You slip around Haegr, turning into a fox, dodging between his legs, and turning back into a woman behind him as he runs into the far coach wall. "Unless we rename your gut a wall!"
As your row escalates Haegr finally gets a grip on one arm, but the jerking of the coach throws you both off balance and out the door. You collapse in a heap on the ground. Haegr huffing and puffing, yourself shaking in a fit of giggles. A shadow falls over you as you disentangle one of your elbows from Haegr's nose. "Filthy, Haegr, just filthy. You've gone and mussed my elbow with your nose!"
Haegr readies to respond when you are both silenced by an impatient tapping of the foot and the clank of metal. You gather your senses. The coach stopped, which is likely what sent you tumbling out. "Get your knee out of my crotch." Haegr complains, you oblige him. You take a deep breath, taking in the dust, wood, harsh tang of iron, and the subtle undertone of oil. Musky horses, and potent manure as well, and a family of rabbits that live just off the road. Also, human, which is the closest non-Haegr scent.
No longer burdened by Haegr's sprawled form you look up to see a grizzled face looking down at you, dressed in a body covered by links of chain. In his hand is a halberd and at his belt a club while you yourself are covered in dirt with your limbs splayed every which way. "If you're finished having a roll in the coach, you have reached the border of the land of the Duke of Lantern's Watch."
How do you respond?
Just let them assume we were doing exactly what they thought we were doing, and let Jackney do his thing.-Sarena
You have the good sense to blush, quite reactively, as the implications of your position dawn on you. Though blush is too light a word; your face feels aflame and your palms like streams. You manage a small, shameful, smile and finally extricate the entirety of yourself from Haegr (rather more quickly than necessary) and gather your feet. Haegr gets to his knees, but it would appear your knee caused him significant pain. He clutchs himself and masterfully manages not to weep. "Good," says the voice you associate with the grizzled soldier, "now, you are at, having specifically crossed, the border into the land of the Duke of Lantern's Watch." He seems a bit taller as he enunciates each word.
No, scratch that, he's just really freakishly tall.
"What business have you in the Duke's land?" You play mute and throw Ol' Jackney a pleading look. He smiles his multi-gapped smile.
"Whal," he begins, stucking his thumbs in his belt and sucking in his measley gut, "we'se is on bus-i-ness of ter Duke o' Barriduhn's Wotch, cozin o' yer liege iffen I moight say sew. E's gon sent ter lady an ter big'un up Norf to fer ter collectshun o' sommat plant er anuver." Already the grizzly giant looks confused. "Sees, wot hah happened wor et doyd up ovah the Lohd Duke's cellah. Now, is won o' tem plants wot dun grow anyhow neah ter heat o' ter temprat lands; ownly up Norf whar it dun git wahm enuf ter melt ter snaow. I'simpol rally, corse I'm jes hoired fer ter transpertatern o' ter lady an ter big'un, taint no bus-i-ness o' mahn wot they does in ter back o' m'coach." You've begun to feel sorry for the guard, who might be going cross-eyed. "Anyhow, it'd be bad fer bus-i-ness t'deny ter servants o' yer good Lohd Duke's cozin a bit o' moss up Norf. Snot loik we'se askin' fer yer gohdianship on ower quesht, as it whur. Jes need passin frough an' awl that soht of fing."
The guard, not sold but still confused looks to you for explanation. You simple nod, as if to acknowledge Ol' Jackneys indecipherable story, and look bashfully down. He looks to Haegr next who, through a somewhat more soprano voice than normal offers some rough translating. "We're supposed to go North, collect some northlands moss, and return it to the Duke of Barridurn's Keep." He has not released his crotch and you begin to feel guilt intertwine with your embarassment.
The guard looks your party over. Ol' Jackney, you can tell, he regards as as little of a threat as one can regard a man. He does the same for you, only less on account of your gender. You flush slightly, irritated, but pass if over as embarrasment. What good does it do you to prove him wrong?
Haegr, however, he takes longer to look over. You may tease the smell oaf on occasion, but there's no doubt he's in fine health. Strong of arm, fleet of foot, sharp of... of... well... something that would be sharp. And young too, entering the prime of his life, where as the soldier has obviously seen better days. The soldier turns to a set of bushes and barks out a monosylabic name. Some rustling later a younger man, similar in age to Haegr, steps out. He too is dressed in links of chain, though he also bears a leather skull cap and a sword the same length as Haegr's. "Boy, sit with them on their journey. Take them to the border and return." The youth nods, salutes with a hand to his chest, and climbs up on Ol' Jackney's bench, where you were sitting some hours ago.
The grizzled soldier looks you over once more, appraising you. Some part of him softens briefly, though why you may never know, stay wary young lass. There's northern rogues about these parts and they're none to particular where a woman is involved. Best not to distract your strongmen with such wiles." Roughly, and quicker than you expected from a man covered in iron, he snags your left hand and inspects it; though why you haven't a clue. "And I expect your parents would be distressed to find their daughter defiled upon her return to them."
Oh hell. The blood from the rest of your body has migrated to your head. It's quite likely to burn off at this point. Not that that would be a bad thing, because he'd finally stop giving you a hard stare. You mumble softly and nod slightly. How could he really think!? Oh god, he could. And so does the youth!
Double Oh Hell; the youth is traveling with you.
You look up, the youth is smirking from Jackney's bench. Damn and double damn (and triple Oh Hell). You shuffle off into the coach and hide your face from view. Haegr, recovered, has the good sense to blush as well as he climbs into the cart. He refuses to look your way until the coach has moved far away from the grizzled soldier's post. "Uh," he masterfully comforts you, "um."
The youth calls back about an hour later. "If you're all done back there, I'd be happy to trade spots with your burly fellow. Up north here we are passionate men."
How do you respond?
A) Accept his offer
B) Pretend to accept his offer and scare the hell out of him with your power.
C) Say nothing and blush profusely
D) Give him such a tongue lashing his ears get will be sore in the morning.
He so has this coming. Or someone does. Surely.
Besides he could be trouble if he's not brought in line sooner than later.
I'll say D - but I'd prefer a simpler - no, thank you, and keep an eye on Jackney to insure that our path isn't changed by the newcomer.
I'm sorry, I believe I was confusing. Ol' Jackney is still at the reigns. The youth is "riding shotgun" as it were. Only writing that he was "riding shotgun" would be quite the anachronism. Rather, I placed him in Fox's seat (where she sat while Haegr was sleeping).
I think I had it right - you tell me. I have Jackney and the newcomer up top with the reins. Fox and Haegar are in the coach. If so, I assumed the offer to be for the newcomer and Haegar to switch - leaving Fox and him alone in the coach with Haegar up top. My preference is to NOT have him alone with Fox, but insure that he has no undue influence upon Jackney's choice of direction.
Ah, I see. Yes, I believe you have it correct so long as you are imagining Ol' Jackney holding the physical reins to the coach's horses.
This child is pure cheek.
-Sarena
D
"I have no doubt that passion must run within your veins. Having seen you, I suspect it would take an uncommon portion of passion to perform any act that could result in such a homely set of features. If you were to inform me that you were unnaturally endowed, I would be forced to believe you for your donkey-face and jennet manners. The only thing that would startle me less than discovering you were bred from hideous parentage, would be to discover that by some wine-riddeled mistake one of your parents mistook a mule for the other and took them to bed."
Haegr whispers to you "Mule's can't breed."
"Shut up."
You continue, "But that tale would be marvelously inedaquate for the explanation of your manners, for I myself would more likely be swept off my feet by a slovenly sow than by a single braying uttered from your lips which is, to me, proof that every thing in the world has an opposite. Where else could I find better proof in the existence of sirens than in the fact that I can hear you slapping your tongue against your mouth-parts in a mockery of language. I have my doubts that you are truely a man and instead some ill-shapen goblin wearing the suit of some drunken dunce he found laying abandoned and unnoticed in a ditch by the side of a tanner's."
Haegr whispers, "Roads don't usually pass by a tanner's shop. The smell and all."
"For the last time, shut up."
"Mules can't breed!" The soldier shouts back.
"Shut up!"
"Also, roads don't generally run past tanner's workshops. The smell and all." The soldier muses aloud.
"Shut! Up! You! Oafs!" Haegr looks at you askance, "Yes, that includes you." He harumphs and crosses his arms.
"And I don't think it's goblins that wear men as suits, bog hags who wear young girls. I suppose with a tongue like that-" he goes on, rambling while Haegr shoots you a look.
"Fox, don't do it." Your feline eyes stare back at him. "I'm serious, we'd be in it deep out here. They've got no love for shamans and their shapeshifting ilk here. I know what you're thinking," the words female and dog filter down to your ears, "it's not worth it for one little soldier-boy's foul mouth," you hear a treatise on the worth of child-bearing, culinary skills, and a devotion to cleanliness, "when even if he's deserving of a beating, and I'm not saying I don't love a good cook, we'll be reported as an actual threat to the country." You tap a finger against your fangs, considering.
"Yes, we'll still get in trouble even if he doesn't manage to report it. They'll be waiting for an escort. That settles that. You become just as brightly human as ever. Though you falter in your firmness when you hear him expound on the true virtues of womanhood.
What do you do?
A) Climb up onto the roof of the coach and smack him around.
B) Listen to Haegr and try to calm down.
C) Mix up some nasty concoction to leave him itching and raw.
But A would be more humiliating for him.
B. There's no need for trouble. He can only be pushed so far before he uses his post as a weapon. Haven't we had enough fighting as it stands so as to not wish to invite more? Especially for something so petty.
This. B.
B. There's no need for trouble. He can only be pushed so far before he uses his post as a weapon. Haven't we had enough fighting as it stands so as to not wish to invite more? Especially for something so petty.
Most definitely. The amount of damage we could do at this point smacking him around is far greater than our wounded pride.
-Sarena
(If you didn't expect anyone to pick A on the previous excerpt then you shouldn't have given it as a choice. It would have been funny as hell by the way.)
As for this choice, I think I'll go B as well. I'm getting tired of being out voted, lol.
(If you didn't expect anyone to pick A on the previous excerpt then you shouldn't have given it as a choice. It would have been funny as hell by the way.)
I didn't care if it was voted as the top choice, I just didn't expect anyone to go for it. I just threw it out there as a "why not" option. I was ready to write it in full cooperation with the CoC.
(If you didn't expect anyone to pick A on the previous excerpt then you shouldn't have given it as a choice. It would have been funny as hell by the way.)
I didn't care if it was voted as the top choice, I just didn't expect anyone to go for it. I just threw it out there as a "why not" option. I was ready to write it in full cooperation with the CoC.
That's what I thought. I'm sure it would have been hillarious.
C, just because I'd love to see what you'd write for it. (Though B is the more "practical" solution.)
You suffer in silence as he continues to generally malign your name. Haegr suggests you take deep breaths, which is a stupid idea and you don't do it. Instead you stew. And as you stew the immediate area of the coach grows thorns. "Um, Fox?" Haegr points at the thorns.
You shoot him a dirty look. "I'm not talking to you."
"What did I do? I just pointed out that mules can't breed."
"Oh, take his side why don't you." He opens his hands to explain and you shush him. You give your attention to the thorns instead because, well, because it makes you feel better. Deep down you have a feeling that it probably shouldn't and you probably ought to feel a little ashamed of it; you push such thoughts aside. You stare at them all twisty and smooth and made of wood. You test one with your finger and it's quite sharp. You give them a little desire to grow and they do, slightly. Up from a knuckle's worth to maybe a knuckle and a half.
You pluck one from the coach. It separates quite cleanly, as though it hadn't been there at all, and roll it about between your fingers. "I wonder..." you muse.
"What was that?" Haegr asks. You wave your hand. Using the tips of your forefinger and thumb on both hands, you grasp each end of the thorn and gently stretch it. At your bidding, the thorn stretches, slightly at first, but then quite easily. Being such a stubby little thing it stretches quite far, just larger than a sewing needle. You turn to grasp another but they're gone, receded. "
"Why is that?"
Haegr looks up at your pensive expression. "Say again, Fox?" You look at him and feel the needle-thorn twitch. Oh, your irritation. That's what's gone.
"Nothing important Haegr, just thinking." He smiles, probably because you didn't shush him or call him an oaf.
"You know, if you want, I'll go challenge him to a fight. Those are some pretty crude things he's saying." Your head snaps up.
"You mean...he's still talking?" Now you hear it, another of his rants about women this and proper that. "Oh, I hadn't noticed. Look at this Haegr." You hand him the needle, "that was a thorn just a minute ago."
He inspects it, end to end (which isn't very far really), "That impressive Fox. Say, have you considered knitting yourself a cloak as well?" He grabs at an edge on his and ruffles it about, "It's quite nice. In fact, selling them for money might make you a small sum, but since you're not buying thread and needles and such." You give him a strange look, "I'm sorry, I think about odd things when I'm in a coach." You didn't know Haegr had been in a coach before. It's not necessarily surprising, but still, he never shared it with you.
Crack
The coach shudders violently and begins to tilt. "Haegr?" you yell as the coach tips over. Up front you can hear a bevy of vicious cursing and paniced shouts. Terror siftings into your nose, the sort of dense but powerful emotions of horses. You hear frightened neighing and kicking. You fall against the right wall, now floor, of the coach. The ground speeds past at the window, rocks shot up and scratch your face, dust gets in your eyes. "What the hell!" You're dragged for another few minutes, slower, before you hear four screaming horses, sixteen kicking legs, and smell various expulsions of fecal matter, not all of it equine.
Climbing out the left door, now roof, of the coach, you see the horses tipped on their sides, still strapped to their rigging, in various poses of discontent; elbows tangled in reins and other horses elbows. Ol' Jackney appears to have been tossed free; landing in a ditch a couple feet back. The soldier is hanging limply, on leg pinned beneath the heavy coach and cursing in agony. Something pushes on your but. Large rough hands force you out of the window and Haegr emerges from below you. You tumble into the dusty road, "what the hell was that Haegr?"
"You were in may way, now where are they?!" He pushes his bulk out from the door/roof and grabs at a sword, balancing atop the tumbled coach, and points it every which way. "Come on, I'll gut them. Stay behind me Fox and don't do anything foolish." Why would he want to emphasis that? You're not foolish at all!
Wait, what was that first thing he said. About 'they' and 'them'? You spin about, weeping dust, trying to see the road through a watery blurr. "I can't see anyone Haegr. Ol' Jackney is back there, the soldiers pinned under the coach, and the horses are all trapped by their rigging!" You flop down in the dirt, bruised, battered, and dizzy. "I'll figure it out when the world stops spinning."
It would appear Haegr agrees, he falls down on the side of the coach and lays there. A muted "damn" filters down from his location.
In which order do you tent to everyone?
A) Haegr, who's just fallen.
B) Ol' Jackney, laying limp on the road about twenty feet back.
C) The soldier jerk, who's leg is pinned beneath the edge of the coach.
D) The horses, terrified and entangled, in danger of injuring themselves with their struggles.
E) Yourself.
edited: then D, A, B, C (to make sure I have it - horses, haegr, jackney, jerk)
E (sorry, too much real life emergency work - first concern is always yourself, if you're no good, you can't help others)
edited: then D, A, B, C (to make sure I have it - horses, haegr, jackney, jerk)
That was my thought as well. EDABC
Jerkarse is probably more severe injuries, but take care of your own first. Also, might want to keep the bow handy. It seems likely this isn't an accident. Jackney may be nigh-incomprehensible at times, but he knows ihs business. Any rock or whatever that's big enough to upset a coach is big enough to be spotted well in advance.
-Sarena
I'm going to say E, D, A, B, C as well.
However, I got the impression that the coach capsized because Jackney got tired of hearing Jerkboy's mouth and probably took his eyes of the road or got impatient and pushed the horses for speed to possibly shut the kid up and with his attention devided didn't pay as close attention to the road as he would have normally.
A) Haegr, who's just fallen. (He's the closest and you will need his help righting the coach as you try to calm the horses down.)
D) The horses, terrified and entangled, in danger of injuring themselves with their struggles. (Injured horses don't make for a very good wagon team.)
B) Ol' Jackney, laying limp on the road about twenty feet back. (His injuries could be fatal. However, we needed to tend to Haegr and the horses first because we may have need of their services for Jack.
C) The soldier jerk, who's leg is pinned beneath the edge of the coach. (You've taken care of the rest, and you simply can't leave him to die -- well we could, but we may need him as we travel through his "region"; it's a practical thing. But we really should *crack* take our time *crack* and make sure we do this *crack* properly *crack*.
)A, He can help you with the others.
D, Most immediate danger.
B, Most likely to die from injuries.
C, The only one left.
And wouldn't horses have knees....
B,
D,
C
and A.
E cause we need to be okay to fix everyone else. B because, he's not moving. D because we need them to get anywhere. C because, maybe it'll get him to shut up. A last cause he's probably the least hurt.
And wouldn't horses have knees....
I suppose so. I got a talking to from my aunt once about how animals had both elbows and knees, because forelegs were considered arms. I suppose you could say it stuck with me. It's their forelegs that are getting caught up the worst at the moment.
Now the thrilling conclusion of Red Moss Keep-Emergency Response Hospital! Dum-dum-DUM! "Doctor!" she cries, "don't do it-"
You sit up in the dust, feeling yourself all over for soreness, bruises, or pain. Noting nothing, you stagger to your feet and weave a wobbly path towards the horses. Their lashing and kicking makes it difficult for you to get close (since you like your legs just as they are now). Rounding the edge of their harnesses, you come around to their backs and start whispering to them.
Interesting note, you smell like horse.
The struggles of your equine companions hits a decreshendo. The eventually stop doing anything but breathing and looking slightly tense. You move to the first one, who would be the front left horse, and begin tugging at the straps holding him in place. He whinnys and kicks a little at your touch, but remains relatively calm. The straps, however, become a struggle and the longer you spend fiddling with them, the more nervous the horse becomes. At some point (you're not sure how you arrived there) you get the straps half off, but caught awkwardly on the horse's twisted body. You lean your head in close to the horse, who is about to begin his futiley struggling again, and exhale on his nostrils.
Strangely, this sooths him. You do so again and the horse becomes limp in the tangled harness, patiently awaiting your will. Taking a hand, you cup it against his mouth and press gently backwards. The horse does his best to obey, shifting his weight such that the straps are no longer pinned in place. With the last bits of the harness removed you nudge the horse towards the side of the road where he begins grazing tamely.
The process is much easier with the remaining three horses. They bend to your will like green branches. Each nimbly does as you bid, with only a nudging on your part, freeing them from the burdensome coach. All three horses march over to the side of the road, grazing gently and looking calm and happy. "That worked rather well." Crawling front of the coach, you find Haegr still laying on his back. He looks particularily green. "Haegr?"
"I'm gonna be sick Fox." You roll him over, while he does little to assist you. Once on his belly, it's contents empty onto the road below. The wretching sound and the stench (Oh Gods the stench!) make your stomach roil. For uncounted minutes, you feel on the verge of a sympathy vomit, maintaining control with only the force of your will. "When you're done painting the road, try helping up the soldier boy."
Haegr vomits again in response.
You march in a more or less straight line down to Ol' Jackney, laying limp in the road. There's a spatter of blood on his forehead and a little trail of droplets to his left. Following this crimson clue, you find a large flat rock upon which is a single large splatter of blood. "Oh you poor man," you whisper to the unconscious coachman, "hit your aged head did you?" You crawl back over to Ol' Jackney and tip him onto his back. The cut is superficial, you think, although you haven't really got a clue. It's not like you can see his brain or anything. Though you don't know what that would look like, you think it would look rather different than this.
You pat the coachman on the cheeks a couple of times, "Jackney? Come on Ol' Jackney, you want to wake up, don't you?" Thinking back you exhale at his face, but nothing happens. "You couldn't just be a horse, could you." You turn about, "Haegr! Come over here! I think Ol' Jackney is hurt!"
A burbling noise drifts back across the road, followed by Haegr tumbling off the coach and stumbling in your direction. "My gods," you curse, "could you be less helpful?" He doesn't seem to hear as he approaches.
And he stinks.
Haegr pours water from his waterskin over his face (that helps a lot with the smell) and peers at Ol' Jackney. "I dunno Fox, he's out cold. Can't really do anything for him but patch up his heaglurf!"
"Wha-" you begin and take in the look on his face, "NO!" You shove him by his shoulder, spinning him around on his knees, "you will NOT throw up on Jackney. Not in his condition!" Haegr empties anything that remained in his stomach. "Gods, Haegr, I didn't know you couldn't handle a little tumble. Damnitall!" The stench is washing over your nose. The acrid, stinging stench. "Come on then, little mister hurly, help me get him back to the coach."
With Haegr holding his feet, the pair of you shuffle off towards the tipped over coach. On your way you notice a few bits of wood, then a large half circle, and a few spokes. It would appear a wheel broke while traveling. "Double damn," you curse, "a broken wheel."
You reach the the coach with Jackney in tow and set him gently on the forrest grass; just off the road. Then, and only then, do you stomp over to find the soldier. He moans and groans in agony. You can see now that both of his legs are trapped beneath the coach, and they most likely are broken. Triple damn! Haegr comes alongside you and regards the coach. The green has left his face, though he reeks something awful. "It's not good Fox. We could right the coach, but without that wheel it'll tip right over again. I can't lift the thing by myself, I don't think you could-" he burps and awful smelling burp "-either."
You take in the situation. Even if the two of you got it lifted, someone would need to move the soldier before letting it down again. He might be able to move himself, crawling and such, but being wrong once would set the coach back down on his legs and surely do irreperable damage. You could turn into bull and lift the coach easily with your horns, allowing Haegr to drag the man free, but that would give away your biggest secret and trump card. You remember the events at Landerton quite well.
What do you do?
A) Use your strange talent.
B) Don't use your strange talent.
A.
-Sarena
A, preferably out of sight. Also, while you're doing a splendid job with the story, I'd appreciate if our protagonist could be a little less abusive towards Haegr (of course, I don't know what other people think of it, but she's starting to remind me a little too much of a female character in the Wheel of Time series).
She can make plants grow right. Maybe she can do something with that like prop the coach up enough to extricate the young soldier.
Also, while you're doing a splendid job with the story, I'd appreciate if our protagonist could be a little less abusive towards Haegr (of course, I don't know what other people think of it, but she's starting to remind me a little too much of a female character in the Wheel of Time series).
I've never read any of the Wheel of Time books. I've been trying to write them as though in a brother-sister relationship.
She can make plants grow right. Maybe she can do something with that like prop the coach up enough to extricate the young soldier.
Oooh - this - it will work as a makeshift jack to get a new wheel on
I've never read any of the Wheel of Time books. I've been trying to write them as though in a brother-sister relationship.
And I think you're doing a good job, I just thought Fox is getting a little mean and bitchy, and Haegr is becoming something of a butt-monkey, and I have the feeling that if the sexes had been reversed, people would start complaining.
But all in all, it's a small thing, and I feel like **** for posting to complain, when there's so much good to be said for the story. Hope you don't mind too much
No worries: In this next installment they meet the bard Erato, blessed to arise from any death while the sun shines, but doomed to die a gut-wretching death every night as it sets. I'll go into explicit detail just for you :D
It's okay. She's been crabby of late because a lot have things have been going wrong (which I believe you noticed). With a little down time she'll feel right as rain. Then again, we've all been adventuring before. How often do you get down time?
How often do you get down time?
about once per level
-Sarena
You shuffle around to the other side of the coach, out of the soldier's view, and concentrate on adopting the proper shape. Hooves, not feet; legs, no arms; a snout, not a nose; fur, not hair; horns, really big horns. A stab of pain shoots up your leg and into your belly, followed by one from the other leg. Immediately their after your arms cramp up and you fall face first into the ground. The impact is jarring, your jaw, which is now being stretched in the hands of a giant, bellows softly. Bits and pieces of you stretch, twist, crack, and burn. Even through the pain you can feel muscle mass growing beneath your skin, and horns penetrating out from your head. You smell a variety of unpleasantness, signals that humans are near by.
You shamble around the coach again, the biggest bull you suspect the soldier has ever seen. You bellow softly, as if to off an explanation, when Haegr does some quick thinking. "Saw him wandering lost off the road. Thought he might be of help." You bellow helpfully and Haegr goes about giving you instructions. Very simple instructions.
He leads you by the horn to the coach and directs you beneath the side. Then, in a move that makes you blush, he smacks you on the butt. Not the flank, as is appropriate, but straight on the butt. Cheeky! You bellow unpleasantly and pretend you don't hear Haegr laughing.
Your neck muscles ripple as you lift the coach, soon the soldier is clear of the fallen vehicle and Haegr has him on the side of the road. You can't see his legs, but you can smell blood nearby and suspect that one leg may be more than crushed. Haegr calls you a "Good boy" and tells you to back up, but you've got an idea. You continue forward, righting the coach entirely.
Of course, you've never tried something like this before; working with plants while in another form that is. You reach out for the broken pieces of the wheel but they're too far away. Scanning with your (rather awkward) side mounted eyes you do spot a stump a little ways up. Haegr is tending to the soldier, so you make an uncomfortable shuffling crab walk, rolling the three attached wheels of the coach along.
The stump, quite unexpectedly, moves through the earth like a fish's fin and sets itself beneath the axle of the coach. Bully for you! You gently back away, allowing the coach to rest on the relocated street stump.
That was amazing, you made a tree move. For all yourself that's the most useful thing in the world (aside from turning into a bull and moving a tipped coach that is). You've got to tell Haegr. You turn into a woman (quite quickly, elation carrying you through) and scurry over to his side.
Only to see the soldier staring in shock. Damn and double damn. Haegr follows his gaze and you take in his entirely too unhappy face. "Look, Haegr, I'm sorry. I got excited and I forgot." The words don't register as he snatches the sword from his sheath hands it to the soldier, drawing the other and keeping it readied. "Haegr? What the hell are you doing!" He's going to attack you? He's going to attack you! Just what has gotten into that man's head.
"Hail," comes a voice somewhere behind you, "She-Who-Charges."
Oh hell.
What do you say?
A) What the hell do you want?
B) Get away from us you bandit!
C) Danak, is that you?
D) Hey, Mr. Lion! Come here and help us.
Maybe adding something like, "I'm a little busy," while she does what she can with the soldier's legs may make him a little more accepting of what he's just seen and a little less likely to tell anyone. Though, the ideas about pain making the soldier halucinate still stand, I say you can never be too careful.
Edit:
I really hope I didn't over step the bounds of a reader with that. If I did, just ignore everything but the vote for A.
-Sarena
I know you've all cast your votes, but my thoughts were - was it an "accident"? (that just happens to be at the area he's waiting) AND shifters aren't welcome, so any acknowledge may worsen our problems.
The way I see it, Mr. Lion has some knowledge about shapechangers that I'd very much like to get, so while I don't want to appear weak, I don't want to antagonise him either. You're right that there's a chance he's responsible for the accident, but I'd prefer to have it confirmed before getting aggressive, and while admitting knowing Mr. Lion might not look good in front of soldier boy, I'm not terribly sure it'd be possible to hide that fact anyway. I could be wrong, but I think we're screwed one way or another, so I might as well indulge my curiosity.
To boost my arguement, though at this point it probably doesn't need it, if she shows more concern with the soldier than she does Mr. Lion then he might help with the soldier and know some trick that could save his leg or legs (I'm a little unsure if just one was crushed or both).
Again, if I'm overstepping then let me know and I'll try not to. But it seems to me that by going A you could get the same result you want from any other vote.
We can always beat him up later if we have to.
You spin about on your heel and fix Mr. Lion with a glare. "And what the hell do you want? As if I haven't problems enough without you showing up!" Mr. Lion, you realize, is talking to you from atop one of Ol' Jackney's four horses. His brother and right hand man are mounted on two more. To add to their galling jerkery, they loaded the fourth up with blankets and supplies. "Also, get off Ol' Jackney's horses!"
Mr. Lion (all six feet of chiseled man-flesh) looks at you. "The road has mistreated you, She-Who-Charges and mate." You blush profusely at the implications. Why does everyone have to think that. "Can we assist you?"
Unbelievable. "You can start by getting off Ol' Jackney's horses." How did they get the fourth loaded up with gear so quickly and quietly. You ought to have smelled him. You pretend he doesn't smell delicious over there (which isn't all that difficult; you're furious). "Then if I don't beat you senseless for thinking about stealing Ol'-"
"No." Well, that isn't what you wanted to hear.
"What?" He goes to repeat himself when you shush him, "You asked how you could help, and your refusing? What is your problem."
"No, the horses are ours. But we might be able to do something for your guardian."
"Haegr's fine, no thanks to you if I might remind you. Something about claws and teeth." He shifts uncomfortably. Good, that'll give you a little something to work with. "Obviously we know just exactly how you regard the thought of team work."
"You attacked me first-" he complains, his voice to powerful and confindent to be termed 'whining'.
"No I didn't. I distinctly remember you trying to kidnap me first, which is very much what I call being attacked." You watch him closely and, indeed, he stews a bit.
"You were very strong." Ok, unrelated but you'll take it. You nod slightly. He appears to be staring at you, awaiting a response. What are you supposed to say? 'I admired the manner in which you mauled my childhood friend'? Nonsense. Time to change tack.
"You were kind of cute as a lion." Haegr sounds as though he's going to be sick again, but says nothing. Mr. Lion, on the other hand, beams.
"I am a strong lion, but you are a massive cow."
"What! You dunder-headed oaf! For one thing, I turn into a bull, not a cow. For two, I am not massive, I am quite well figured thank you. For three, how dare you call me massive, I am quite well fig- well proportioned! And, and for four, I kicked your ass." You hear a moaning somewhere in the distance. We're you doing something a minute ago. You're sure you had something very important to do, other than argue with Mr. Perfect-Blue-Eyes.
The soldier!
You cut off a perplexed response from Mr. Lion, "Your buddy, what's his name?" You point at the massive burly man on Ol' Jackney's horse.
"Gulfaer?"
"Yes, Gulfaer. He mended your," you try not to remember where your horns have been, "bits after I, um, gave you the horns. Could he do that again?"
The shaggy giant looks to Mr. Lion for permission and recieves it. "Yes."
"Fine," you harrumph, "that's one way you can start to help us. Have Gulfaer heal this soldier boy."
Mr. Lion nods and Gulfaer dismounts, shambling over to Haegr and the soldier's position before kneeling on the ground. Haegr is nearly growling at Gulfaer in anger. You suppose you'd do the same in his shoes. They probably weren't so well treated in the attempted kidnapping. The mammoth of a man begins whispering and mumbling this and that. You've got a little time to kill anyhow. At this point, you trust Haegr not only to keep Gulfaer in line, but to tell you the number of hairs on his head and wrinkles on his brow.
"How long were you following us?" You ask Mr. Lion.
"Since you left."
"You kept up with a horse drawn coach for hours? How?"
"I find the chase particularily enjoyable."
"Thats not an answer." You note that Mr. Lion appears to be smirking. "You weren't running on two feet." Mr. Lion's smirk grows. He needs to stop that, you're slowly forgetting that your angry at him. "So why then?"
"We were going to meet you, but there were a great many guards chasing us." He laughs and slaps a fist against his chest, "They were no match for us, neither in guile nor battle. They did delay us though and I feared failing to meet you upon the road. So we waited beyond the gate, between Gorsmeet and here to follow you."
Something sinister brews in your head, "Did you wreck our coach? I lighten your body of a great deal if you did." He laughs.
"Wreck your coach? No, there would be no point to such a thing. We were content to follow you beyond the border but," he shrugs, "this was as good a place to meet you as any. Have you reconsidered acompanying me through the lands of the People-Who-Charge?"
"No." You stop to think. "And if you try to kidnap me again I won't just let you go."
He holds up his hands, "Very well, it is your choice, She-Who-Charges."
"Thank you so much Mr. Lion." Sarcasm drips of your words and hisses on the ground. Either he didn't catch it, or he's a dunce, because Mr. Lion sits astride the horse (with his magnificent thighs) beaming.
You, need a distraction. You turn about to check on Gulfaer, who appears to have mended one leg and begun working on the other. If Haegr were any more threatening you think the trees would move slightly aside. You stalk over to where you and Haegr laid Ol' Jackney and give him a once over. No new developments at least, either good or bad. To tap in lightly on the cheeks in hope of awakening him but to no avail. "Hey Gulfaer, I want you to look at Ol' Jackney next."
It would appear the lapse in concentration you caused had reprecussions. The crippled soldier howls in pain and Gulfaer shushes him. Mr. Lion calls over a negative to Gulfaer, who returns to work on the man's legs. You sigh, dramatically. Images of floors in need of scrubbing and hedge mazes in need of pruning dance through your mind. Though unpleasant, this is a good deal more exciting than servant's work. You trot out from behind the coach and level a glare at Mr. Lion. "What's your problem with helping Ol' Jackney?"
"We don't have time."
"Bull crap, you don't even know the condition he's in."
Mr. Lion smiles, "He smells unconscious." Ooh! You're about to give that (incomparable hunk of) man a right good kicking.
"Well, then give his horses back." Mr. Lion smiles. Anger is seeping back into your muscle-entranced skull. Mr. Lion stops smiling but raises his hands again.
"Please, She-Who-Charges, that's not necessary. Fighting between us at all is unneccesary. We can find much more productive methods by which to rend and tear." The last bit sends a shiver up your spine. Wait, that was a good shiver! What kind of man sends a shiver up people's spines with 'rend and tear'? You get ready to light into Mr. Lion when he interrupts you.
"Gulfaer, let us go." You turn around, the soldier is in good health, sort of. Haegr lets a little tension go as Gulfaer moves away and mounts up onto the horse.
"I will not let you take our horses, damnit!" Mr. Lion looks perplexed.
"I did not ask to have them." He gives you an appraising eye, "But, there is a village a few miles from the left fork up ahead. By the smell of it they have horses there." He leans back and speaks to Ranak in a whisper. The lad hands him a small leather pouch, which Mr. Lion lobs gently through the air to land at your feet. The contents of the pouch spill out.
Gold.
More gold coins than you believe you've ever owned (no, you're sure of it you've never owned that many). On a rough estimate there are fifty, maybe sixty golden coins in the purse, another fifteen or twenty scattered before it. It's a damn fortune.
Well, maybe that does change things. You'll have to decide quickly, Mr. Lion is riding off.
What do you do?
A) Go after him. He can have his stupid coins, the horses belong to Jackney.
B) Horses aren't that expensive. You could probably pull the coach until you find a town with horse vendors. That amount of gold could easily get you ten solid horses.
C) Take up banditry. Take out Mr. Lion and keep the coins as well. Actually, search Mr. Lion for more golden coins while you're at it.
-Sarena
If she wins, she could offer the gold back if Gaefer shows her how he healed the soldiers legs. Just a thought.
Every time we fight, we risk our own lives and the lives of others, including witnesses we might have to kill to keep our secrets. What do we gain from this fight? Horses? We can buy more. Gold? We needed some, and now we have some. Pride? That's a foolish reason to risk the life of Haeger. He almost died last time, and this time we aren't in an enclosed space where our immense bulk was unavoidable. This fight gains us nothing and risks losing us everything.
B.
We have more money than what we started with at this point. He'll pop up again later. We have a job to do right now though.
Ouch - talk about tough decisions. As she has recently worked with the horses... how amenable to her were they. My thoughts - though the lion may frighten them, they are still herd animals, and more akin to her kind. In the right form, she may be able to take the form of the lead mare (luckily for horses, her gender is appropriate), and lead them back here essentially stalling until a better arrangement can be made.
PBN, you're welcome to change your vote (although at the moment, I'm not sure if you've made one). Choosing B or C will put us in a dead heat for the vote.
You make a quick appraisal of the coins at your feet. It's a fortune, but how many pieces of gold does it take to buy your integrity? Apparently, one whole sack is insufficient. Swiftly and surely you run after Mr. Lion, "Hey!" you hollar as he trots off, "Not so fast you!" Mr. Lion looks back at you, not entirely pleased. He urges the horses into a trot.
You're not going to be outdone that easily though. Turning into a horse for the first time might be awkward, but it's better than letting him get away. You come to a dead stop and focus on horses; flanks, main, tail, hooves, knees, swiftness, tirelessness. It does hurt, though not badly, as your body stretches and compacts at different intervals. Your legs grow quite long, all four of them, and by the end of the ordeal you feel generally stiff but ready and able.
Galloping gracefully, you close on Mr. Lion. Your unshod hooves clatter over the dirt road swiftly. Gulfaer looks back at your perplexed. He yells something in a foriegn tongue to Mr. Lion, who in turn looks back. A grin and a grimace war on his face. He pushes the horse harder, sends it and the other three charging ahead.
You pursue them, unburdened by a rider or gear, closing steadily as the forest whips past in a green blur. The feeling of your speed, and running at a dead sprint is euphoric. Small whinnys escape your lips as you draw closer and closer to the kidnappers now horse-thieves. You come close enough to nip at Gulfaer's boot (and do so). He howls out of irritation when he feels your grinding teeth pinch his ankle.
Victory, you pant, victory as a horse no less. No sharp teeth, no wicked claws, no pointed horns, just speed and grace. He thrusts his hand deep into a pouch and stuffs a handful of powder in your face. You sneeze and cough, itch and burn, you can't get the damn stuff off. You lose speed, coming to a slow stop, sneezing and braying and bucking. Your vision fades, nature's sounds become muted, and the wind doesn't brush your main. What the hell did that damn oaf do? Slowly you choke out and fall unconscious to the ground.
As a horse.
***
Some hours later you awaken, still a horse, under the gentle care of a pair of men. They pat your flanks and support your head. "Doesn't look too bad off," one says.
"No, not bad off, but strange in my eyes. No shoes, no bit, no tackle, no saddle? Horses don't roam wild out here, it makes no sense to me."
"Maybe a foal that wandered off?" Says the first one, he has a deeper voice.
"I suppose, no brand on it though. Ought to have a brand I'd think." Says the second, with a more soothing voice. He appears to be the one supporting your head. Ruddy skin, bandana tied about his head, and soaked in sweat.
"Yep, a foal that could run would be old enough for a branding. What we have here is a genuine mystery." The man supporting your head looks up at his partner (whom you cannot yet see) and chuckles.
The second man looks into your eye, "Well honey, can you get up?"
This is not going the way you want it. You concentrate on being human. Two legs, two arms, and all of that sort of thing. It doesn't hurt this time, until you realize that you haven't changed back. You reach deep into the pit of your stomach and pull on the fire as hard as you can, but there's nothing there.
Maybe some gas, you drop a massive horse fart.
"Whoa honey! Not feeling well? Come on, lets get your feet under you." He nudges and tugs gently at you, encouraging you to roll off your side and into a crouch. It does feel marvelously better to be off your side, like a whole weight is lifted off you. "There's a gally, now, lets get you standing." He looks over at your legs, "You can stand, can't you?"
"Ought to be able to, don't feel or see any breaks down here." You turn your long neck about and catch sight of the first voice. Large, plump if your so bold, and dressed in clothes only slightly better than that of a peasant farmer. You feel their eyes on your back. "Looks to have a strong back too. Mystery or no Markus, this horse will be our saving grace. Ought to fetch a heap at market. Now come on gally, lets get you harnessed up."
Oh. Oh hell no.
You flat out refuse to budge, not even when the dangle a (most delicious looking) carrot before your face. What on earth ddi that stupid man do to you? More tugging and jerking from the two men, none of which manages to budge your quite notable mass. "What the hell's wrong with you honey? Never been saddled?" You jump violently as you feel the weight of a saddle drop on your back. There will be none of this nonsense whatsoever. You neigh and buck, threatening them with your hooves.
"Gods damn you horse, never been broken!" The deep voiced man turns to his soothing compatriot, "Do something Markus. Talk or something." The ruddy man, much more slight of build, that goes by Markus starts whispering to you. It's all well and good, he's promising you oats and carrots and sugar lumps, though by the looks of them that last bit is well out of their economic grasp. It is really quite soothing, but as Markus goes to buckle the saddle you lash out again.
"NO!" You do your best to say, resulting in only neighing loudly. The saddle tumbles off your side and into the dirt. "NEIGH NEIGH NEIGH!" There will be no whinnying out of you. Your grand escape seems to be progressing when a loop of rope slips about your neck. This won't do at all. You fight and tug, but the rotund man turns into a powerful obstacle.
Another loop of rope, coming from Markus this time, slips around your neck. Damn and double damn. You fight them for an hour at least before you're worn out. Fortunately, they appear to be as well. Rather than taking efforts to equip all their gear on your back, instead they harness you up and tie your lead to the rear of their wagon. A few test tugs prove the knot is secure. You mope along, not being helpful in the slightest, behind the wagon.
What's worse, they turn their wagon about, taking you away from Haegr and Jackney and the soldier boy. They keep talking about market this, profit that, proper lifestyle everything else. They speak frequently of their wives and children in Holg, turning around their poor showing at the market, maybe finding one of those northern folk that ride wild horses. For the moment, you've got nothing but time.
***
You follow the wagon into a large swath of grass, filled with makeshift fences, brightly colored tents, and horses of every shape and size. They move their way into a formerly empty spot while men nearby great them. "Thought you were done!" one says, "Nice horse." says another, "You owe me three copper churls!" shouts a third, this one perhaps farther off than the others.
They begin showing you off, and your in no state to resist after that long haul. Haegr and your comrades are way back on the road, though perhaps not out of help's reach. If someone else were to travel that way, going to the southern cities from this... gathering, they might be in luck.
What do you do?
A) Cooperate in their showing, assuming that getting purchased will give you the best shot at running.
B) Resist the men anyway, assuming that resisting their leads will help you break away.
C) Try to convince someone that you're a human in dire need of assistance.
A. Oh, and good going with the getting her stuck as a horse. Maybe now she'll explore her other abilities if she gets out of this predicament. Love the story, Mang!
-Sarena
I'm terribly sorry, it's been a very busy weekend and workday. I'll most likely get something up tomorrow.
You Markus and his associates', whose name turns out to be James, lead as they show you off to potential buyer. The words 'spirited' and 'strong' come up often as they describe you, in response to which you snort (you're really good at that now, your snorting can't be mistaken for anything but). Weariness eases from your body slowly over the course of their showing, which is quite remarkable. Perhaps you ought to turn into a horse whenever you get tired. Oh, right, you can't change back.
You play the part of a placid, gentle mare, whose only objection is people checking to see if she's actually a mare. You're just not having any of that silliness. After you give one lout a good kick to the shoulder everybody takes Markus at his word. With all this time, there's plenty of time to think back to Gulfaer and his powder. Just what the hell did he throw at you? Pepper would have accounted for the sneezing-choking fit, but not for knocking you out. You can think of a few plants that, if ingested, would put someone unconscious, but not inhaled.
And Flint never talked about making someone stay as a horse.
Markus and James return you to their wagon. Being surrounded by a fence they assume you're quite well entrapped. At first, this appears to be a golden opportunity. Just jump the fence and you're home free. But the fence is very high, and you've heard of horses that fail to jump an obstacle. Images of broken legs and you laying helpless on the ground appear in your head. No, that won't do at all.
You meander over to a water trough and peer into the cool liquid. Horse snot and hay float freely about. They expect you to drink this? Turning a head you peer at their cart horses. They stare mutely back. Well, you decide, there's a chance that water could wash the powder off, free you from this equine state. All you have to do is brave another horse's boogers. Ok, it's worth it. You push your face into the cool water and swish it around. Pulling up streams of water run off your nose and big horse lips.
Nothing.
You reach down into your belly to find the fire that lets you change shapes. It's there, sort of, but not really. It's not so much that it's gone as it evades your grasp, like pulling at smoke. You walk over to the cart horses, who grow restless as you draw near. You see a fire brewing in their eyes and an urgency in their snorts. You inhale deeply, taking in their musky scent. Excitment. Rushing wind, rumbling earth, muscles flexing, a herd charging across a long flat field. The feeling is contagious; you remind yourself that you aren't a horse over and over again. Still, there's a longing in you, to run and run with reckless abandon.
You fight the sensation; though it feels very nice. It's difficult to think with the wind rushing through your mind. The powder, something Gulfaer threw at you. It was green maybe? Perhaps a yellowish sort of green. Around you, the two horses have calmed slightly as you reigned yourself in.
Maybe there's something to this. You reach down to pull on your fire again and, though it eludes you, the horses stomp and prance. Pushing it away calms the horses down, relaxing them. There's definately something to this. Looking across the fence (which is difficult with the placement of your eyes) you see another horse walking closer, the same sensation wafting off of his scent. A glorious charge to freedom? A mass equine revolt? Perhaps.
What do you do?
A) Stage a great revolt, even though people could get hurt.
B) Look for a way to escape in a small group, limiting the possibility of injured innocents.
C) Continue with the charade and find a way to escape by yourself.
B looks good but a small group would be easier to track and we still don't know how long the powder will last.
She does seem to be gaining access to her abilities in a limited way which might mean the powder is wearing off so that could make A or B viable but C seems like the better way to go. If she just waits a little longer she may be able to change again.
I think C should be the choice. However, that doesn't mean that she shouldn't rile up the other horses a bit. If the traders see she is having an effect on the other horses they may remove her from the other horses and put her in a barn or somewhere where she would be alone. Out of sight she could wait till she can change and simply walk out.
I choose C. Seems we're getting close to ... something. Keep tryin'. B.
-Sarena
You shake your considerable head. No, escaping would be nice, but not if people get trampled in the process. There's only one person you really want to trample right now, and he's riding off on your horses. You whinny softly to your fenced in companions, who cease their stamping and neighing, and nuzzle you comfortingly. You amble to the back of the Markus and James's cart and look around. Rope, a lockbox, spare wheel and axle, nothing particularily useful. You giggle (which comes out as a whinny) softly as you consider disguising yourself in their clothes. Surely no one would suspect!
You must be getting manic, because the idea is hilarious to you. You whinny and whinny and whinny, even prance around a little bit. You sigh slowly (really it's more like an exhalation) and walk the perimiter of the fence. You decide being a horse in a pen is officially unpleasant. You do take a moment to snitch the bit hanging off the fence post and dump it into the trough. No way someone is putting that in your mouth.
You eventually lay down next to a fence post and fall asleep, wondering whether Haegr and Ol' Jackney are alright. Even the un-injured soldier boy crosses your mind. You hope they're alright.
***
You awaken in a field of flowers surrounded by strange- oh, you recognize this. Bull is sitting lazily in the center of the dell. You walk over and nudge him with your nose. It stings a little until you realize your a human, crawling about on your hands and knees, pushing your much smaller and certainly less equine nose against a slumbering bull. "Oh thank you Gods." You look at Bull, "and, um, Bull. Thank you too, I think." You take a moment to stretch your opposible thumbs and upright back (which no one ever plans on straddling). "Well," you grin to yourself, "lets talk to Mr. Bull."
You walk over to his head and gently try to rouse the dreaming behemoth (what do your dreams dream of?). You grow slightly rougher when he doesn't awaken. Taking a brave motion, you slap him on the nose and dance backwards, far beyond the reach of his prodigious horns.
Nothing.
"Hey, Bull! You're not dead are you? I'm not comfortable with having your corpse in my dreams." You scan his carefuly, noting that his mass does seem to rise and fall with gentle breathing, but nothing you do appears to rouse him. Perfect. You'd take a red hot iron to his butt right now if you had one and chances are (by your guess) that that wouldn't even get him up. You turn about in place. All the same occupants: wild flowers, needle-leafed trees, bubbling spring, enormous good-for-nothing-lazy bull.
What do you do?
A) Try desperately to wake up Bull.
B) Peer into the water again and hope for a vision
C) Mess with the wildflowers, you haven't done that yet.
D) Examine the trees, you haven't done that yet either.
-Sarena
If nothing happens we can just give ole bull a kick in the keester to get him up.
Pretend the italicized text is witty, clever, and includes a pun based on horses, magic dust, and the letter C. You know, like all the other italic text.
To the tune of Dust in the Wind:
Dust up his nose,
All we are is dust up his nose.
He's turned on.
But it's not Cheryl Tiegs,
It's Secretariat.
Dust up his nose
Everything is dust up his nose.
From Dust up his Nose, by Larry Rand.
Oh, and C sounds good.
Is this story officially dead?
You lower yourself onto your knees and inspect the flowers. They're not entirely remarkable flowers, most of which you've seen before at the gardens of Barridurn's Keep. Coneflowers, baby's breath, wall flowers, foxgloves; all very pretty but not entirely useful in waking up a mythical bull spirit. There is one flower though that you do not recognize. It's small and dainty with petals that roll from crimson on the inside to brillian orange at the edges. You plucky it from the ground and take a closer look.
The flower is filled with a soft white pollen that spills out onto your hands and up your nose. "Ahhhh," you suck in a breath, "ahhhh," and crinkle up your nose, "ahhhhhh" you place a finger beneath your nostrils as though that would help. You sneeze a mighty sneeze (relatively speaking) that throws you onto your hands and knees (well, hands, you were already on your knees).
A series of rapid fire sneezes assail you like a stutter. "Should have choo known bet-choo-ter than choo to inha-choo-le choo pollen choo!" you chide yourself. You rub your poor abused nose with both hands, massaging the overworked appendage. Something tickles your nose as you do so.
Placing your hands before your eyes you see that they are sprouting. You can't remember your hand ever sprouting anything before (generally because hands don't do that) but even so, little green leaves are unfolding from your fingers and buds emerge from your fingertips. You stop, somethings tickling your back. You spin around with your neck craned and one eye shut, trying to do the impossible. Reaching back your touch the tickling sensation and pull back a flower, crimson petals that glow orange at the tips.
Well, this could be an issue.
Suddenly you feel thirsty; remarkabley thirsty. You trudge over to the springs and dip your fingers in without thinking. Roots sprout from your once leafy fingers and drink the clean clear water. You look down and it dawns on your that you are drinking through your fingers. You scream bloody murder.
Markus yells at you, "Calm down girl, calm down!" You buck and kick and stare at your root fingers. It becomes far more difficult to buck and kick for a moment, as though your face was tied to the ground. People are screaming all around you as your pulled (by your face again) somewhere.
And then you smell smoke.
Your eyes snap open and your mind recenters itself. You're a horse, or a human trapped as a horse, Markus and James have captured you, thinking you a regular horse, and come to the fair to sell you, Haegr, Jackney, and the soldier boy are all injured down the road.
But why do you smell smoke?
Your head clears and everything starts working again. Markus is leading you by a loosely applied set of reins. He's hooked the other two horses up to the cart and has a saddle on your back. You briefly revolt at the idea of being ridden. You can smell Markus's sweat though and his panic. James is screaming at Markus, throwing things into their cart. None of that explains smoke.
You look about with with your gentle equine eyes in search of a source of smoke. It's not that hard to find, the central tent is on fire, as are two or three other tents. People are running about with weapons bared, pointing and yelling and, quite frankly, you have no idea who is who. "Come on James, leave the rest of it and get in." Markus yells from above you. You realize he's on your back, in the saddle, riding you. Cocky little git.
You're not sure, but the fight seems to be two sided, one side dressed in furs and paint, the other side completely lacking any semblance of a uniform. "Leaving without any of our supplies guarentees a hard year Markus, get off the horse and help me load." James yells back.
"Getting killed by raiders guarentees no year whatsoever James!" Markus puts particularily hard inflection on the James' name. Raiders eh? From the north? That's not good. You snort and stomp a little, these aren't bad people here, they just don't know you're not really a horse. Markus and James have actually been quite pleasent to you (insofar as one can be pleasant to a horse that's a human only you don't know it). They certainly don't deserve to be butchered in a raid. On the other hand, you'd really rather not get butchered either and they have swords.
In between Markus urging you forward (it's not working at the moment) and the screams of the fighting, you realize you've found something you've been missing. A fire is burning in your belly hot and fast and quick growing flowers are tickling your hooves. This might be your chance to reclaim it, overpower the magic dust and get your power back.
On the other hand: Swords.
What do you do?
A) Pull on the fire hard and heavy and charge into battle.
B) Pull on the fire and try to turn back into a woman.
C) Forget the fire and run like hell. You know: Swords.
We aren't ignoring the fire. Not after we worked so hard getting it back.
Let's go with B. If this other party is from one of the shape changing tribes we might be able to get them to stop just by our presence.
A.
Edit: And Jonathan, you take care of your real life business first. If you need a break, just make a little post to let us know you haven't forgotten about us. Good luck.
-Sarena
Text
You reach down into your belly and grasp at the raging flames. No doubt about it, they are fully within your control. You focus yourself on yourself, you curves, your height, your feet and toes and fingers and hair. In one drawn out moment you become a woman with a very heavy weight on your back and a bridle in your mouth.
You keep Markus on your back for a few heartbeats but quickly topple under the weight of him and his saddle. "GEC OOF MEH!" you yell. Spitting out the bridle, "Get off of me Markus. Now!" The thoroughly shocked human scampers away from you. You push yourself to your feet and immediately stumble with the weight of the saddle. "Damn," you curse the leather creation. You fuss and tug at the strap holding it in place. Perhaps you should have spent more time with Ol' Jackney because the damnable thing isn't coming off.
"James, Markus, one of you get over here and help me get this thing off. Embarassment and battle aside, it feels very very nice to be human again. Just two legs, opposible thumbs, and a tongue that forms words; you don't know why you ever wanted to be out of this form. Is your hair longer? You don't remember it being this long. Nevermind, if you could, you would kiss yourself. Neither of your old 'captors' move. You trundle over to Markus, saddle clinging to your hips and bashing the backs of your legs, "Markus," you speak slowly and clearly, "unbuckle this saddle. Go on, do it now. Use your hands." You appear to be getting through to him, though not with the speed you want. His hands fumble dumbly with the strap. "Focus man, the strap. You did this a hundred times to the other horses, look at the strap," he continues to stare at you, "the strap Markus." You take him by the head and adjust it down so he stares at the strap.
Slowly his fingers become nimble and Markus master's the saddle's strap. "Oh, good man, thank you." You turn around and survey the scene (and double check that you have clothes on. You do). The battle is still raging between the raiders and the bystanders. Bull threatens to well up within you. Horns goring, hooves trampling, throat bellowing bull wants to charge in there and gore them to the ground. Your vision gets hazy and you feel the fire spreading to your limbs.
What do you do?
A) Accept Bull's fury, knowing you'll be changed into an animal again.
B) Fight Bull's fury, knowing that though anger makes you stronger you don't want to change shapes.
C) Escape the battlefield as fast as you can, fighting is for soldiers and warriors.
D) Hide, do whatever you need to to escape notice.
It's time to GG no Re these clowns.
A.
-Sarena
I seem to recall owning a very fine bow, which has to date never seen combat. Time to change that, without tapping the Bull's Fury. No idea why we would want to eschew the versatilty of Human form for the strength of a bull(especially given our actual gender).
-Sarena
Unfortunately, her bow is back with the injured boys.
In which Fox goes on a rampage as a Bull amongst groups of unsuspecting raiders. A-way we go!
Markus is too dumbstrick to respond, instead slowly shifting away. You can hear his boot scrapes. The horses nearby whinny and whicker as the fire wells up within you. It irritates you that someone would raid your horse show. The back of your mind is perfectly, perhaps sarcastically aware, that just a moment ago you were being showed off for purchase as a work horse. And you're certainly not going to get back to Haegr and Ol' Jackney (ok, and the soldier boy) too if there are raiders on the roads. Really, there's only one answer.
Bull
Fire wells up within you and races to your fingers, scalp, and toes. Hot paternal anger courses through your skin as you ripple and deform. You cry out, but bellow a challenge instead. The ground get's further and further away as you come eye to eye with the horses, then with then shoulder to shoulder with a nearby tent. The melee closest to you slows down dramatically and those further away hesitate at your snorting and stomping. You're pretty sure you hear Markus faint, which is a remarkable thing to hear. You decide that if you're going to win this fight, you've got to capitalize on the moment. You bellow.
"HRRUuuoooOOONNNH!"
The effect is not quite as you imagined. Within your chest are lungs the size of large dogs. The fence before you cracks and three tents collapse. That should be good enough for drama. You charge. Your massive hooves throw up globs of dirt the size of cart wheels and you cover more ground than a flying bird.
A blink after charging you tower over the first raider, engaged against two boys with sticks. You push yourself to the right, away from the boys, and dip your left horn. The impact shakes the raider's body like a rag doll. Still charging, you close on the heart of the battle. Pressing through a tent that blocks your path, you trample a incomparabled confused raider emerging from the forest. A line of armed men and women, guards, mercenaries, soldiers, hired hands, fend off the brunt of seventeen whooping screaming men. You close on the local's rear flank.
Unwilling to trample them in reaching your enemy, you gamble at leaping over them. Your body does not leap very well, if anything its an aerial lunge. One man has his skull caved in by your passing hoof, but the effect on the enemy line is telling. Your thick skull clears the line of defenders and you swoop back and forth. The length of your horns batters the fur-clad raiders. Ribs crack, legs pop, grown men bleed and cry.
To your surprise, instead of breaking, the raiders rally against you. You've slain at least eight men now, but twelve more emerge from the woods and, to your surprise, one of them turns into a very angry bear. Nowhere near your size, but twice as tall as any of the assembled men. The arrogant bastard looks so confident though, dressed in the muscle and fur of a bear.
Deep in your belly the fire hates him. It hates him for being a bear, for being a predator. It hates him for challenging you and threatening you. It hates him for ruining your trade-meet (the one you didn't want to be at and didn't want to participate in a little voice in the back of your head reminds you). But most of all, the fire and the bull hate him for looking at you and those assembled behind you as prey.
The surviving raiders must number around twenty. Those shocked and terrified traders outnumber them easily, but few of them have arms and of those that do, you doubt they have experience whereas each and every raider moves with a killer's grace. What was once solid human wall holding back the raiding savages now stands about, stunned and confused, staring interchangably at you and the raiders.
In the distance, five tents burn.
What do you do?
A) Charge the bear. Stomp him. Gore him. Trod him in the mud!
B) Slay as many of the raiders as you can, it will save more traders and you can deal with the bear in a minute.
C) Try to rally the suriving traders. If they join the fray you won't be threatened by the raiders.
D) Radically change your tactics, throw the raiders off their guard.
Touching lightly on the fire in your belly, you draw up Bull's memories. There was one you remember distinctly from your contact with the supermassive entity inhabiting your dreams. One of wolves and of goring and charging. Stoking the flames with these emotions, the fire slides into your throat. It threatens to overwhelm you, to gag and choke you. Your breath turns to steam in the chilly night air.
The Duke had hunting horns, which you recall hearing on occasion. The sort that called to the core of one's being and demanded it's attention. You bellow clearly, belly fire seeping into the prolongued sound. "HrrrrruuuoooOOOOOONNNNNNH! HrrrrruuuoooOOOOOONNNNNNH!"
Fire sweeps out from the note lays over the scattered and frightened traders like a blanket. The promise of a stronger herdmate to the young, sick, and weak. "HrrrrruuuoooOOOOOONNNNNNH!" You bellow and the raiders take a step back. Fire rolls down the trader's throats and sets in their bellies. Dozens of tiny feet (that wanted to buy you an hook a plow to your butt) move against their better judgement towards the supermassive bull, towards you, like an child to a pranet or a younger sibling to an elder. You snort and stamp restlessly. Steam rolls out of your nostrils and off your terrifying bulk. A few people leap back from your swishing tail.
People are aligned in a circle around you because some part of them bears scars from a savage time, when things with two legs were prey to those with more. The strongest are arrayed in a shoddy line beside you, the weakest huddled in the center, armed with sticks and riding crops. Silence lays over the field, smothering the bear no more than fifty feet away and his snarling. Many eyes wating the same creature, many legs tensed to run, many bodies faced the same direction. The urge to stampede is overpowering, overwhelming. The only question now, as you exhale a frightening snort, is whether they will stampede towards the enemy or away from it.
The fire in your throat is almost gone. You gather it up and force it out with a single snort. It shoots from your nose as jets of steam. Raiders slip back another step despite the great bear's snarling. You couldn't ask for a better moment.
You charge.
Four-hundred and fifty stone of bull charges forward, kicking up pig sized clods of mud. Like cattle mooing, the humans surrounding you hollar and scream, rushing to catch up waving improvised clubs and personal weapons. You dip your head as you reach the front of the already shakey line of raiders. To their credit, they swing at you with their axes and clubs, but striking at your horns and enormously thick skull does little good. Chests implode with the impact of your great white spikes. Trader's follow up behind you, slaying the wounded and dogpiling the lucky. The pittance of weight levied against you is barely noticable as you bellow through the masses. The bear is within your sight, rearing up to bat at you. You dip your head below the meaty paw and scoop him up with your horns. Knocked on his side, the burly thing flops over, trying to put his feet beneath him. You reverse your might neck, bringing deadly tip of your other horn down on the prone shapechanger.
A sickening crack echos out over the din of battle as you pierce the bear's back and snap it's spine. Blood from a dozen minor cuts dribbles in your nostrils and into your eyes. The thick membrane absorbs the liquid. Raiders flee in their ones and twos back to the forest. Victory! Triumph! Conquest! You have overcome the predator again because you are mighty. Your herd is unhuntable.
Oh, your herd. Right. The herd of northern shaman hating humans surrounding the thirteen foot high bull, er... the thirteen foot high you.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
Paw and snort at them. Let them know that if they try anything they'll get gored and trampled on as we make our exit.
If they drop their weapons, or if one of them comes forward more than the others, shape change back into a human.
I say we kinda survey the group, give a nod to them and then calmly trot away while still in bull form. They're likely stunned enough from the series of events to just let us go. Some probably have no clue we're actually a shapechanger. So let's calmly but sort of quickly leave and try to find our pals.
This.
Change to human and say, "A shaman t fthe North has saved you, despite your sins against us. Go forth and sin no more." Then walk away.
This
Change to human and say, "A shaman t fthe North has saved you, despite your sins against us. Go forth and sin no more." Then walk away.
Epic. This.
-Sarena
I say let's just walk off without a word. They are going to remember that we helped them well enough without lording it over them.
You look about you, disloding the human-once-bear corpse from your horn in the process. The traders seem stunned with disbelief, milling about aimlessly. You snort impassively (you are surprised how much you can communicate with a snort). You doubt that they'll come after you, being as you just saved their lives and their horses. Already groups of people are breaking off to douse the burning tents.
Careful not to step on anyone, you slowly walk away. Soft thunder rattles the ground in your footsteps as you put distance between yourselves and the horse traders. Some of the children follow you for a while until their parents fetch them. A few of the adults chase after you. Your pulse jumps for a moment when you hear the rapid patter of their feet. Turning to face them you discern that it is not weapons they bear in their hands, but grain held in a leather hat.
Why not?
You dip your head and press your massive tongue into the hat, curling under and around the grain. The scratchy rough tongue withdraws from the hat, bringing the grain into your mouth. For all intents and purposes, it's not that bad. You grind it with your flat teeth and send it sliding down your gullet. The men stand and stare at you, as if waiting for something. As if you knew what they wanted. You turn around and walk off.
The men don't follow you, hooting and hollaring as you go, sending you off with congratulations. How, you wonder, will they remember the night? You shake your head, being remembered as the woman that turned into a bull and slaughtered a band of northern raiders is not something you want to be remembered for. Still, maybe a little something would be nice.
You peer about, using your ears and eyes and nose to confirm that you are indeed alone and separated from human eyes. In a blink, you are a fox, scurrying through the underbrush following the road you are sure will bring you to Haegr and Ol' Jackney. Part of you misses the great stride of the enormous bull, but that would be far too noticable and, if you did run into someone on the road, it would be tough to explain away. "Oh yes," you imagine yourself explaining, "I only looked like an enormous bull. You have had a lot to drink after all and my hair does give the impression of horns when seen from just the right angle." You laugh a foxy laugh to yourself as you slip through the night like oiled spit.
There are owls out, but you doubt they're a threat to a fox. Indeed, aside from the normal forest scents, all you can smell is horse dung and sweat. With the number of horses at the fair, you imagine the smell carries quite a long way.
***
Just out of sight of the crashed coach you turn into a woman. It's swift and painless and you're rather thankful to the dream fox for whatever he did. "Haegr?" you call softly, "Haegr?" Shuffling down the road in your dirty and damaged clothes you approach the divet in the road. The coach is still there, collapsed on one side, but Haegr and the others are nowhere to be seen. "You would make it hard on me." You curse him, but gently. There's no one you'd rather see right now than big smelly Haegr.
He's the only person that probably smells worse than you do. Speaking of which, your stomach is starting to feel very, very upset.
You pop into foxdom and bend your nose to the ground. It's hard not to be excited at the familiar stench of your childhood friend, it would be even harder not to follow it. Scuff marks and boot prints litter the ground. Nose to dirt you track Haegr along the wooded brush. After a few minutes of slow walking, you pick up the smell of wood smoke. You scamper through the woods at lightening speed, a red blur in a shadowy field of greens, browns, and greys.
Indeed, you are running so fast that you fail to notice a sleeping serpent. Trodding upon it's head though, that does the trick. Your peaceful forest is filled with angry hissing and a snaping reptile. You evade the first two thrusts and venom flies onto your coat.
Still, you're in a hard spot now. The snake is furious, frightened even. But in order to get away you've got to stop dodging the striking head and that, especially at this size, could be the very last thing you do.
What do you do?
A) Fight the snake, snake meat is edible and it's the best way to get you safely away.
B) Turn and run, the snake is just frightened and it's the best way to get you safely away.
C) Transform, if you turn into something big enough the snake won't have enough venom. It's the best way to get you safely away.
TL;DR: B.
B.
And so the lumbering giant bull walked off into the sunset, forever searching for his giant lumberjack companion. Why Paul, why?
B.
-Sarena
Ophidiaphobics, all of yous! Remember the battle cry of Jason Nesbith: "Never give up, Never surrender!"
You slink backwards, shifting your weight to the right as the snake lashes out at you. You flip about as it recoils and dash off towards the scents of Haegr and the campfire. You feel a pinch about your rear leg but carry on anyhow. Angry hissing fades into the background as you cover vast stretches of earth. The pinched leg is burning now, but the campsite is within sight.
Huddled around a crude and waning fire is Haegr. Ol' Jackney is next to him, resting on a bed of leaves somewhat further from the fire than Haegr. The soldier is propped up on a fallen trunk, sound asleep. Various packs and goods from the coach, including the all important alchemical box, are propped up against a small tree behind your burly friend.
Fast as turning luck you reach the campsite, a red blur against a background of dim orangeness dancing on faded greens. Haegr starts in fright. "Fox, is'at you?"
You start to nod and realize how silly something like that would be. You plop back into woman shape and nod. Then you open your mouth, in the event that there was any confusion, and confirm his suspcisions grandly.
"Yep."
Haegr leaps from the log upon which he was sitting and wraps you up in an entirely unmanly hug. "Damnation Fox I thought Danak had stolen you away." Hot wetness seeps through the shoulder of your shirt. "I saw you dash off as a horse and I was sure you'd be gone forever."
You shush the blubbering giant. "It's alright Haegr, it was just one, no, two nights." He refuses to release his deathgrip on you and your ankle still burns. "Umm, Haegr? Could you take a look over my ankle, it's burning up."
"Sure," the proud and manly rumble returns to his voice, "I can do that." He seems perhaps to be reassuring himself more than you. The soldier wakes up and groggily looks about, moaning softly. Haegr releases you and gets on one knee. Gentle as silk with hands like stones Haegr lifts your leg slightly. You drop a hand to his shoulder and lean against him for support. "Looks like you go bit Fox. Did you see what got you?"
"A snake maybe?" You hold your hands apart, locked at the elbows, "maybe about that long."
"What'd she look like?" the soldier inquires, "not all brown with wavy splotches of darker brown?"
You consider the question. It had been moving particularily fast. "It was brown. That's all I remember".
"How can't you remember lass, you step on a snake and don't look at it?" Haegr shushs the soldier on just the other side of gently.
"Lay down Fox." Haegr instructs. You do so, leaning against a log Haegr rolled into place.
"Keep your foot low though, don't put it above your head. Don't they teach you about snakes?" He sighs dramatically, "just keep your bosom above your bite." Why, thank you, for that poetic instruction. You follow their instructions, but can't help noticing that your entire leg is on fire, right up to the hip, and it's traveling slowly.
"Fox, hey Fox. What's up, tell me how you feel." You must be sweating, your forehead is wet and Haegr has a hand across your brow. "Are you hot?" The soldier moves over for a better look.
"What do the blacks of her eyes look like? Are they really big." Haegr locks eyes intently with you for a second and responds with a negative. "What about her heart? Hey, is your heart going pap-pap-pap or is it going pat-a-patpat-pat like?"
"Its going very fast, and my whole leg is afire." That's not entirely true, the whole right side of your body is aflame and its moving leftward. "Actually, I'm burning up." You curse in a very unladylike manner, "I did not route a whole bloody army to die from a snake bite." Haegr looks at you in distress bordering on panic. Even the soldier has lost his largely careless manner. "Damnit." The world starts to get very far away and very small and then it goes black.
"Damnit!" echoes through your conscience.
***
You wake up laying in a garden surrounded by wildflowers. Bull is sitting next to you, at a distance from the spring. At first your body refuses to respond to you, then piece by piece you wiggle fingers and toes, twitch your arms, part your lips, and turn your neck. The effort required to stand is unbearable, almost as bad as changing shape completely calm.
Looking down it would appear things are not quite as they seem. Your body is still laying beneath you, which raises the question as to how you are standing. Coiled and sitting on your body's chest is a snake, slightly luminescent, staring with slatted eyes at you. Bull nuzzles your body (the first time you've seen that lazy lunker move more than a few inches) but remains unawares of the reptile. The snake itself appears completely disinterested in the snorting bovine.
"Ssss," it whispers as best a snake can whisper and coils into a tighter circle on your chest.
What do you do?
A) Approach the snake.
B) Attack the snake.
C) Keep your distance and try to speak to the snake.
-Sarena
She who slithers needs a little bit of respect for the moment, especially from She who is Cunning. Talking to it would be a damned good idea, preferably from a safe distance. We can stomp that ***** later, if the need arises. At this point, take in her every feature, so if we do survive to wake up, Haeger can be told what she looks like. I vote C.
-Sarena
Perhaps, but according to a previous dream the fox and the snake fight briefly before the men try to attack the snake. Seems pre-destined.
Even if it's not that symbolic, attacking would drive the "snake" away from her body and expel the poison.
And it will give us a better idea of it's intentions. If it strikes I say we shift into a mongoose and pwn it's face.
While I'm working on the next installment (which will result in the birth of the Yuan-Ti) I wanted to solicit some advice from you folks. Which segments were your favorites? Using that I can figure out how better to hone the story to you readers.
While I'm working on the next installment (which will result in the birth of the Yuan-Ti) I wanted to solicit some advice from you folks. Which segments were your favorites? Using that I can figure out how better to hone the story to you readers.
I like the dream sequences alot. I find them rather inciteful and well written. That and the whole novelty of what you are doing. I couldn't do it that's for sure. At least not without alot more to go on than what we typically give you.
The action sequences are entertaining as well, and are probably my second favorite. But then again the build up you give us with the development of the characters makes that stand out and be so memorable.
If it sounds like I'm having a hard time picking just one thing, it's cause I am having a hard time picking just one thing you've done so far. I love the humor, and I like the drama that you create.
As a matter of fact if you don't mind. I have your Resident title. You are the Resident Shakespear.
Still scared of the snake? Freud might have something to say about that. Anyway, the oracle had something to say about 'ware the fork-ed tongue' or something but I forgot. Best of luck anyhow.
You take a few steps back. Taking a good hard look, the snake is deceptively long, much longer than you initially thought. You take another step back and watch it. The serpent writhes briefly on your chest, perhaps getting more comfortable or merely annoyed by bull's steaming breath. Leveling your gaze, you stare at the serpent. You're not entirely sure why you've just decided to enter into a staring contest with a snake, but you have.
The snake stares back. After a few moments you recognize small thins about it. The snake that bit you was light brown, but this one is darker; a dusky shadowy brown. Also, it's head is large with a blunter nose and it's back is not splotched with pattern ,as the one that bit you (why you can remember so many details now is beyond you), but crisscrossed with large and small scales. The pattern of the scales is vaguely entrancing.
Your mind recoils from the scales, belly fire flooding up through your limbs. In the heat of the moment you demand of the snake, "What do you want?" Shocked by your outburst, you return to your calm staring contest (you haven't blinked, maybe you don't need to blink in dreams?).
"Patience," it says drawing the final syllable out into the next word, "slippery." The snake writhes again, coils looping about one another, disappearing and reappearing, sliding seemlessly into one another. The pattern among the scales tugs at your focus again. Your staring contest turns into simple staring as it undulates and wriggles. Part of you is really quite infuriated that the snake is doing all of this on your chest. It's very rude and certainly uninvited.
"What do you want you overgrown scale-backed worm?" Twice the snake's spell is broken and your mind freed. "I will not tolerate you squirming around on my chest, its insufferable."
The snake ceases it's writhing and raises up out of it's coils. "Strong," it hisses softly. Without warning it lunges at you, striking at your neck. You flicker like fire, nimble stepping around the striking snake and slapping it's head. The long line of scales and muscle falls gracelessly to the ground and disappears. Turning around you see the snake still resting on your body, or perhaps having just returned. "Quick," it whispers, which sounds exceedingly strange coming from the snake's mouth; there are no s's to prolongue or draw out.
The snake's tongue darts from it's mouth and flicks at the air. Peripherally you notice Bull digging into the earth below you with his horns.
Snake curls about, smokey as a dream and bites you. Your inert body that is. You cry out, lunge at the wispy form, and tear at it. Your hands fill with smoke and you feel a pinch behind your ankle. "Damnit!" you yell, spinning about and catching the snake wriggle off into the tree's beyond your dell.
There is a numbness and a sensation of falling from a great height. Air is forced into your lungs by the desperate gasp of your throat. Your eyes flutter in the dimness of the dream light. Bull has you cradled in his horns, lumbering slowly towards the spring. The burning gasps of air become soft willoy sips. You're in your body! At least, your in your dream body. Bull dips you in the cool water of the spring. Needle-pricks of cold sting your skin and a the slow rush of ice runs through your ankle.
Focus returns too fast. You feel dizzy, the rough bovine tongue scratching your neck is a welcome sting.
Lifted on curls of bone you emerge from the icy spring and hover in the air. The massive bull turns, bearing you effortlessly through the air, and deposites you on the bed of wildflowers. Curiously and concernedly Bull peers down at you with one of his ox-brown eyes. He snuffles you with his powerful nostrils.
Everything feels peaceful as small flowers sprout around you. A soft warm wind, the first you can remember in your dreaming, moves through the dell rustling the needle-trees, babbling in the water, and caressing your face.
What do you do?
A) Stay down and rest for a moment.
B) Gingerly get to your feet and lean against Bull.
C) Spring to your feet and chase down that damn snake!
(Don't get me wrong, I want to rip the snake apart too, but running is just a bad idea. Maybe this next installment should consist of her getting better so that she can chase the snake down.)
-Sarena
I say B. Although I wonder why Bull didn't intercede when the snake was wiggling all over her body, I think his intervention after the encounter saved her life. If she chooses to chase the snake down it might be a good idea to have Bull nearby. If Bull doesn't go chasing after the snake then it is probably not a good idea for her to go either.
It would appear I made an error. I had originally begun the segment with Bull snuffling her body, but appearing entirely unaware of the snake. That post was lost in a careless click of the refresh button. I'll reinsert that to make it clear.
Edit: Scratch that, it was in the segment prior to this most recent one.
"You wake up laying in a garden surrounded by wildflowers. Bull is sitting next to you, at a distance from the spring. At first your body refuses to respond to you, then piece by piece you wiggle fingers and toes, twitch your arms, part your lips, and turn your neck. The effort required to stand is unbearable, almost as bad as changing shape completely calm.
Looking down it would appear things are not quite as they seem. Your body is still laying beneath you, which raises the question as to how you are standing. Coiled and sitting on your body's chest is a snake, slightly luminescent, staring with slatted eyes at you. Bull nuzzles your body (the first time you've seen that lazy lunker move more than a few inches) but remains unawares of the reptile. The snake itself appears completely disinterested in the snorting bovine."
You place one hand on Bull's great horn and move yourself slowly to your feet. He appears oblivious to your weight, having once again begun snoozing gently. Your a little woozy on two legs, but the cool chill in your leg persists. You assume it's a good sign. Water soaks into Bull's hide, though he doesn't notice, as you lean your waterlogged body against his shoulders for support. "You're alright Bull." You smile weakly and he huffs (was that an acknowledgement or a snore?).
Your recovery would not appear to be complete. Laying against the great bovine you rest, taking in the scents of the dell which are, by coincidence, rather like the scents of the campfire you left Haegr and the Soldier boy behind at (oh, and Ol' Jackney too). You wonder what they're doing, whether they're panicking over your sleeping body. Hopefully Haegr won't leave you alone with the soldier boy.
It concerns you somewhat that you can't just voluntarily wake up (you try again, just to be sure). But the dream has never harmed you before, so you discount the possibility that your in real danger. Bull saved you.
Though probably not stranger than dreams are you note that you have never seen a bug in your dell. Not that you really want to, it's just a touch odd. Bugs are always everywhere. Though resting, you become restless, bored. Now that's interesting, isn't it? You could have sworn you'd kill just to have a moment to lay back and do nothing while you were a horse or fighting the raiders or Mr. Lion but now that you have it...
Has adventure wormed it's way into your blood? Your heart beats a little faster at the thought. Gods not an adventurer's heart, somewhere in the back of your mind you're pretty sure that's an old curse, "may adventure find you" or some such blah blah blah. Bull shifts restlessly in response.
"I suppose you were something of an adventurer, weren't you Bull? Take your herd to places unknown, and so on and so on? Do cows still moo stories about you?" You smile at the thought. Bull snorts. A rushing sensation fills you, as though you were flying through the air very close to the ground and very fast, thunder rolls behind you, lightning flashing all around you, and a terribly massive bear standing in your way.
"That is not how it happened. Just a bunch of frightened merchants following a terrified woman in bull form." The sensation does not relent, you are the source of the thunder, your hooves crashing against the hard dirt, steam jets burst from your nostrils, and a mighty bellow pierces the night. You beging to suspect this is one of Bull's visions, not your own. How nice. A numbing impact as your neck compacts and expands, shoving the enraged bear through the air. Dozens of horns emerge from beside you and gore him, hundreds of hooves pass you and trample him. You yourself lay in the killing stroke.
Your heart beats faster as the drama unfolds. Victory, glorious victory! Prey no longer, food no longer. Though your a plant eating predator. The raise in your heart rate gets you dizzy again, but your ankle remains cool. It becomes quite remarkable, the rushing of adrenaline.
Warm wind filters through the trees again, rustling their branches and swaying the wild flowers. The breeze smells of hedges and dirt and calms the rushing of your heart just before you grow ill from it. Bull snorts and settles down. It smells familiar, eerily so.
The hedge maze?
You hadn't considered the old maze in a long while. Flint as well, the many crawl throughs and false walls, and the boys you abandoned within. Why now?
Turning your head you see a wall of hedges between a pair of the trees that ring your dell. "The maze?" Warm wind is billowing forth from the hedge, no doubt about it. Oddly, for a second you hope that no bugs get in your dell.
What do you do?
A) Enter the hedge maze.
B) Stay where you are and rest.
C) Search for the snake.
A and if we find the snake we are killing it this time.
This. Also, let's stay in Human form this time. If we're in a dream, we should be able to summon up our bow, and use that for defense. If adventurer we are becoming, I'm thinking Ranger. All this shapechanging has benefits educationally, but every time we take a shift, we wind up in some ugly mischief. Besides, it's really unladylike to change into a bull.
-Sarena
Using your leg as a counterweight, you lift yourself off of Bull's dozing form. You move slowly but surely, favoring your chilly numbed ankle, towards the entrance of the hedge maze. The whirling series of events that brought you here flit through your thoughts. "Horse, powder, trade meet, raiders, snake, poison, bull. Perhaps servitude in a castle isn't so bad." You say aloud, the a little voice in the back of your head argues vehemently to the contrary. You reach the treeline and rest up against one of the great pines for a moment.
Pressing on, you move through the entrance of the hedge maze to the sound of rustling leaves. Keeping one hand on the tickling walls of the maze you stride forward coming to a T intersection. The maze goes both left and right, so you stop to consider.
Pines?
How did you know they were pines. You've been confused about their needle-points for so long. "Pine," you say the word as if to taste it. It's a nice word, comes out with a pop and carrys out to a nice soft end. To the left is another wall and another left turn, to the right is a dead end. You'd guess, though you're not certain of it, that the dead end at the right is a trick and, if it's meant to keep someone out you probably want to go that way.
Turning right you consider how pleasant it is to be in the maze again. You even wish Flint were here. Instead, you find a real dead end, not an illusion. "Clever Flint," you whisper to really no one at all. Crouching down (and falling on your butt) you find there is a crawl hole to your righ, covered by dangling vines. On hands and knees you shimmy through it, not regretting the warm rich dirt that coats your dream-clothing. On the other side of the wall is a simple square garden, a few pleasant flowers and a statue, just shorter than the hedge wall, of a naked man. You try to pretend he's not naked and focus on his face (yes, that will work, he's a nice face). It's a strong face, "Chiseled" you joke to yourself, with high cheek bones and a set jaw. His hair is curly which makes him strikingly effeminate despite his powerful build and (oh god you looked!) other bits.
You look around at other things (quite on purpose), admiring the flowers, but your gaze is drawn inevitabley back to the statue, standing firmly with his hand's outstretched. His face is expressionless, "stone-faced" you joke to yourself again (perhaps these are funny to you because you almost died).
On the other side of the hedge you hear leaves rustling in an entirely non-wind related manner. You spin about and face the tunnel, backing up until something solid is firmly behind you. That something happens to be the statue's thigh. Your slight embarrasment is quashed by the adrenaline of the moment. You hone in on the little crawl way, staring so hard your eyes hurt. You haven't forgotten the snake.
What do you do?
A) Hide somewhere.
B) Wait to confront whatever it is.
C) Try to surprise whatever it is when it comes through.
Italic text.
You slip around to the other side of the statue, crouching low behind the base. This low you can see that there is text at the bottom, engraved into the stone. The script, though obviously carved, has a sense of being hand-written. "He for whom," you whisper silently to yourself, "I would wear no fur." Sounds a little kinky when you spend time to think about it.
The rustling in the hedge wall stops and, from your hiding spot, you can see a human step through, probably an older one. Your voice catches momentarily, "Flint?" you ask.
"Maggy?" He looks about, dazedly, "s'at you Maggy? Where are you?" He sits down in the dirt and fiddles squishes a bit between two fingers. The squished mud sprouts vines as he sets it back into the earth. From there, the viney mud blooms into a improbably beautiful orchid. "Got flowers for you."
You don't have the heart. "It's me, Fox," you say as you step out from behind the statue.
"Hell, Fox wouldn't be in my dream, I'd rather you were Maggy." How do you respond to that?
"Um, Flint, it's me Fox as sure as your thumb is green." That makes the old man smile, "But I'm not so sure it's just a dream. I've been coming to the same dell every night and it's starting to seem more real than fantasy."
"That doesn't make sense Fox." He's got a point.
"Well, since I'm in your dream anyway, humor me? Whose the statue of?" A broad cracked grin crosses his face.
"You can see the resemblence?" He laughs, "go on, look harder."
His hair is, what little is left, curly. Though it is old and brittle, not thick and tight as the statue depicts. His features are certainly angular, high cheeks, square jaw, hard angles all of them. "You? Flinky, that's you?"
The old gardener slaps his leg, "Of course it is, Maggy put it up there for me. S'got a beautiful inscription down at the bottom, can't read it anymore of course but I still know what it says. He," he intones quite seriously, "for whom I would wear no fur. That's Maggy's way of telling me she loved me." The orchid in his hand slowly wilts and dies as he forgets it. "Nice to have around in my dreams, reminds me of her. Usually she's here and not wearing any fur."
"Aw Flint," you cross the distance between you and settle yourself beside him, "I'm sorry she's gone."
He grunts, "She ain't gone, you just took her place for a night. I figure the sooner I can get you out of my dream, the sooner she'll pop back into it. So, what'll it take to make you leave." You sigh, gods save you from old men with schedules. "By the way, I had to lead one of the boys out of the maze yesterday," he says, apparently having forgotten forcing your emigration, "seems like you mighta started something. 'Minds me of you once in a while."
You scoot closer to the old coot, "I miss the keep Flint, everything out here is damn terrifying. I've been mugged, robbed, and turned into so many different animals I can't keep track any more. I was stuck as a horse for a whole damn day." Your list of complaints just make the old man chuckle.
"Maggy got herself stuck as a pidgeon for six weeks once. Took forever to get her back right. To this day she still stares at bits of bread on the ground funny. Well, used to anyhow." The man lays back in the grass, relaxing on the green.
That, sounds like a real clue. "You mean Maggy changed shapes too?"
He utters a soft curse, "Sure she did, now don't you tell anyone Fox. Don't need someone diggin' her up and sanctifying her grave." He groans softly, "She could wear any damn shape she pleased, did it all the time to get a right scare out of me too. Knew I hated snakes." You lay back and listen, "Don't know why or how she did it but, hey, don't you still have that little totem thingy I gave you. That was Maggy's. I 'spect it back by the way. She said if you held it right and felt right you'd turn into a jay-gew-ware. Big black cat is what she means, nasty thing."
"I did that!" You exclaim, nearly causing him to jump. Quieter, you continue, "I was so mad and there was a fire in my belly." Flint just nods.
A soft sound, like that of rope being dragged over dry leaves reaches your ears. The cold in your ankle begins to recede, though whether that's a good sign or not you're unsure. Of in one corner of your eye you can see a familiar, elongated shape.
It's a snake.
What do you do?
A) Leap up and attack the snake.
B) Warn Flint of the danger and help him get away.
C) Say nothing an keep a wary eye on it.
EDIT: Plus, it could be Maggie playin' a joke on him again.
And we can still kill the damn thing if it starts **** again.
C. It's Maggy.
And we can still kill the damn thing if it starts **** again.
This
You lay back, bringing your attention back to Flint's words, with one wary eye on the slithering reptile. It seems pleased at this, though you're not sure how you've interpreted it's unchanging face and flicking tongue as pleased. It continues to slither forward, making that dragging rope sound, through the garden grass.
"...said it got so hot sometimes she felt as though she was going to explode from holding it. At some points I made her climb on down the well on account how she couldn't be quite over it. Those were always the best fights between us." He sighs heavily, "I even miss fighting with her." While Flint talks the snake has come within an arm's reach of you.
You begin to rethink your decision. It's not moving around to surprise Flint, rather its sitting there, staring at your through slotted eyes. "Um..." you say as the elongated reptile slithers over and, and... cuddles up next to you? Flint props his head up, "What?"
"Nothing," you reply dumbly. He resumes his reminiscence. You feel a pinch on your elbow, but no burning sensation or numbness. There are two of the smallest and shallowest bitemarks you've seen a snake deliver yet. Slithering around your feet the scaly creature passes onto Flint's leg.
He doesn't seem immediately aware of the approaching serpent and twice in the same dream you begin to doubt your decision. You open your mouth to warn him when the snake pulls up to it's full height (which is rather impressive), opens it's fanged mouth wide, and hisses viciously.
The old man leaps from the ground, only to find the snake coiled about his leg. He flees to the statue and begins to climb in a very undignified fashion. You see the snake lunge and nip his saggy butt twice and Flint screams like a small child. "Damnation! Snakes in my garden damnation!"
He sprints in circles about the statue, slapping his own butt to keep the snake from nipping it. "Please be Maggy," you whisper to yourself, afraid that you've offered your mentor to the same fate from which Bull preserved you. The old man collapses on the ground, worn out and tired.
A woman forms where the snake had been. Though naked, you find her presence more comforting than the statue (you convulse softly as you realise the naked statue is the old man before you). It's not as though you were afforded private changing rooms as a servant.
Her hair is a soft mahogany, gently curled and somewhat frizzy. Flint remains on the ground, gasping and wheezing.
"Hi Fox." She smiles. It's an unusual smile, genuine for certain but twisted with mischevious energy and the glimmer of satisfaction. "Flint's told me so much about you."
Face in the bare earth, Flint begins to curse softly. Maggy strolls towards you, leaving Flint behind to gather his wits, and sits at the base of the statue, resting. "Hello," you respond awkwardly, not having any way of introducing yourself to the snake-lady who you assume to be Maggy. "Nice statue," you offer, feeling ridiculous the moment it leaves your mouth. Maggy, in turn, smiles.
What do you do?
A) Jump right into conversation about shape changing.
B) Offer Flint some assistance.
C) Question Maggy about snakes.
Flint's our friend. Friends > knowledge.
-Sarena
Flustered, you move to kneel beside Flint, who is sputtering and cursing about snakes and jokes that aren't funny after fifty years. "Are you alright Flint?"
"How could you not see a snake slithering up through the grass Fox, it a snake." Flint begins pushing his aged body off the ground. You assist him and he finds his knees beneath him. "Could have bitten you well enou-" you follow his eyes. They're staring at the bitemark on your arm. "-you were in on it! You were in on it with her! Together! Harpies, both of you, wicked harpies! Witches!" he throws out a few less polite terms.
Stamping in his impotent rage, you take a step back, "Well, I didn't want to punch Maggy."
"Well you ought've!" He gesture's wildly with his great big hands, "Darn fool not to punch a snake!"
Peels of laughter fall away behind you. Glancing back you see that Maggy has scaled the statue to get a better view and is sitting on the top of it's head. "Should have seen your face though Flint, damn funny." You make an attempt to dust off the gardener but to no avail. He pushes you away as hard as his old man arms will let him. "I never understood why you dreamed yourself old, Flint."
He makes a noise and a dismissive gesture, "I am old Maggy, and it's not funny to play pranks on old folk." His face is still red. "Could've stopped my heart like that."
Peels of laughter.
"Um, Flint?" You ask shyly, pointing at the back of his pants where tiny bloodstains have appeared.
"See what you did? Both of you! Oughta be ashamed." He snatches up a pinch of dirt, "Preying on an old man like that." A small scrubby plant grows out from between his fingers. Plucking off the leaves he clenches them in his fist. Maggy looks bored, almost capricious. You nearly suspect she's going to turn into a snake again.
Opening his hand, Flint's hand is covered in a moist grey-green paste which he promptly sticks down the back end of his pants. "Stings like a hornet's butt Maggy." Laughter again.
You realize Maggy's capricious look is not directed at him, but at you. Taking a hand you rub at her bite marks, "I don't see why you had to bite me too," you mutter softly, beneath your breath. The nude lady takes a tumble from the top of the statue, landing lightly on four padded paws, swishing her tail about. Then, for no reason again, she's a woman, smiling a tempestuous smile.
"Well, honey, I want something from you." You watch her carefully, studying her movements until your eye's fall upon her's. Hidden behind the glee is fear, longing, and concern.
"What." You reply flatly. No good, you think, can come of people asking favors after biting you.
She looks up at the sky distractedly and hmmms to herself. "Another time I think." With that, a sensation of falling from a great height grips your belly and spreads out to your limbs, fingers, and toes.
***
Haegr pats the side of your face. Your grimy, sweat salted face. "Fox?" he asks as he prys open an eyelid. The fresh air stings.
"Ow," you jerk away and call him a brute, "What do you think you're doing to my eye!" Relief is written clearly on Haegr's face. The soldier shows some as well, though perhaps it's a relief from something other than your waking.
"You're awake, thank the Gods!" A grin spreads from one ear to the other. "I thought we were going to lose you Fox. Alain knew a local remedy, but it involved hunting down and killing the snake. That took a goodly long time." He wraps you up in his big bear arms and hugs you, "But it was worth it."
Alain, as Haegr called him, sighs dramatically. You find yourself hard pressed to hold the thing with your eye against him as he pulls you into his (invariably smelly) chest. "Thank you Haegr, I had the strangest dreams." Smiling, he covers you up with his blanket-cloak.
"Alain tells me it brings on fever-dreams. You'd best sleep now, morning isn't far off." Despite your desire to remain awake, to share and confide in Haegr, the dull ache of sleep sitting on your eyes draws you away.
You sleep dreamlessly for the first time in a week.
***
Morning finds you ill rested but pleased. Your ankle hurts no worse than a pinprick and you are back on track to reaching the northern moss. Haegr offers you an arm, which you gladly accept, hastening your journey than your new slight limp would allow.
Alain carries Ol' Jackney wordlessly. You can't help but fret over the coachman's fate as he still hasn't awakened. It takes a short hour, but the quartet of you reach the coach. It still lays on its side. There are signs of having been rustled through by a human, and the smell of having been peed on by some passing animal, but all of it appears to be as you left it: one broken wheel, no horses.
What do you do?
A) Make a go of it on foot. It will take a while, but require no use of your special powers.
B) Try to fix the carriage and pull it yourself, using as few powers as possible.
C) Fix it and move it however is neccesary, even if it involves revealing yourself to Alain.
Besides, don't they have issues with shapechangers around here? Revealing ourselves to Alain is likely to get us killed. Besides, we have no idea what's left of our supplies. If it's been ransacked by a Human, we may not have much, if anything, left. Alain can carry Jackney on his back.
-Sarena
You lay down your load, comprising of your clothes and the alchemical box, by the side of the coach. Already aright you blush at the sight of the stump, then grin broadly. The soldier-boy eyes you suspiciously. "I remember strange things, pinned under the coach."
Haegr shush's him, "I told you already, fever-dreams. Loosing blood and hysteria of the moment. I does tell us you think Fox is a bit bullish, but no one disagrees with you."
Blood rushes to your face. Damn and double damn, he'd seen you but Haegr had covered it well (and did he just call you bullish?). You sigh, "Don't worry Alain, you're about to see much stranger things." Before Haegr can stop you your hand plants firmly on the stump. Filling it with fire you push it towards the center of the coach and cause it to grow. The empty axel is now dangling free in the air, elevated to a comfortable position. "Is there another wheel Haegr?" Stunned by your open display, he half-steps over towards the rear of the coach.
Alain moves to stand beside you, elbow in one hand and chin in the other, looking pensively at the shattered wheel. "Well, axel's still good, saves you some trouble." He continues to watch the empty axel, as though his staring will fix it.
"Indeed."
"Might want to check it though. Might be cracks that haven't broken yet."
"Indeed."
"Also, you're a witch." He snatches your arm and spins you about to face him, "a barbarian shaman ****."
He ought to have grabbed both arms.
Your slap shatters the silence of the forest as surely as crashing shattered your missing wheel. Haegr's head pops out from behind the coach. Reeling from your somewhat anticipated assault he turns his eyes angrily upon you.
But you still have both hands.
The second slap came as a complete surprise. The back of your hand, returning from the first blow, crashes into his cheekbone. He staggers, losing his grip on you. Refusing to look at you you decide to take the momentum, this time drawing fire from your belly and pushing it through your fingers. The third and final slap catches him as he raises up his head to glare at you. The weight of the blow throws him to the ground, raised red welts on both sides of his face. "I am a farmer's daughter, raised in service to the Duke of Barridurn's Keep, assistant to the ducal gardener, and a woman of perfectly fit morality. If you dare pull any of that crap again, Soldier-Boy Alain, I'll slap you silly and leave you on the side of the road."
Alain is young, for he is cowed by your imperious matron routine (you surprise yourself a little bit there)
Haegr calls up, more trouble. "Wheel's missing Fox. Might have been knocked off somewhere back there but I can't find it."
Tears trickle up towards your eyes and it takes quite the effort to hold them back. "Ok," you shout back, surprised by the calm in your voice, "Take soldier-boy back and search for it. I'll keep an eye on the coach." You doubt that Alain will return without extra lumps.
Wait a minute, Haegr saw the whole thing and he didn't come rushing to your rescue. Irritation boils within you and recedes; you handled it quite well. Perhaps he thought you might? And so shortly after his protective hackles were raised by your poisoning. The more you consider it, the more calm you feel. Haegr's pretty tough and if he thinks you can handle something, then by the Gods (great spirits?) you can handle it!
The men head back down the road to search for the missing spare. You're left with a broken coach and Ol' Jackney. You place a hand on his brow and find it cool, not fever-ridden. Haegr must have worked his herbs to keep him well. You pull back Ol' Jackney's eyelids, as Haegr did yours, to see his eyes beneath are relatively normal, dashing about erratically. Your stomach turns and you release the lid. What a frightening sight, is that what you looked like while poisoned?
Dragging him by his shoulders, you maneuver the coachman closer to his coach. "Come on Ol' Jackney, its your coach. Dying is bad for bus-i-ness." A smile quirks on your lips, but nothing changes. Resolved not to remain useless you turn to the empty axel. Well, empty isn't quite the word for it, as a few bits of wood, mostly those which would have held the wheel in place, hang limply from the axel.
Grunting with effort, you remove these bits and pieces, holding them in your hand. Drawing up the fire in your belly, you determine that you will sew yourself a wheel. An exercise in futility to be sure, for Haegr and Alain will return with the spare eventually, and a sewn wheel could not possible bear the necessary weight; but your mind is busy and your hands idle. Sewing a wheel will solve them both.
Working deftly but slowly, you will the broken pieces to grow vines. Not flacid things as you used to stitch together Haegr's cloak, but hard wood. Indeed, not so much vines as very small trees. Nubs wriggle out of a broken bit of wheel. You are well aware that coach wheels have straight spokes (is that the word, you wonder) from the center to the outside, but you do not build wheel; you sew. You reach through the fire and find each nub. This becomes a difficult task indeed, for as quickly as you gather up a sixth nub, you lose the third, or first or fourth. Keeping track of each of them becomes a powerful struggle.
A coolness settles over you, emanating up from your arm. Panic briefly wells within you as the coolness rolls up through your fingertips and into the bit of wood. Threading through the the fire like silver lace the coolness wraps itself about the wooden nubs. Like an act of embroidery, or lacework, you feel the nubs remain in place as your will takes hold of one and encourages it to grow.
You conjure up a doily in your mind, from the Duke's table. An elaborate thing for sure, but also quite suited to your task for it is already round, and already bears a hole in the center. Your lead nub grows and curves gently as you switch nubs, taking the on immediately to it's right. This one curves up and gently to the left. The tips of the nubs meet and you turn them into you. You repeat the process seven times, finding yourself with a quarter of the wheel complete when a thought occurs to you. Reaching out, you take hold of the coolness and thread it through every other ungrown nub on the wheel. You manage four before you feel control slip. Satisfied with four, you curve them up and to the right. Threading your will through their counterparts, you repeate and reverse the crochet.
Opening your eyes you take in your work and grin like an idiot. Half the interior wheel is covered with the initial crochet. Closing your eyes again you return to work, finishing the first row of arcs and begining on the second. You move to the third ring of the doily. The same of as the first save that tiny elegent offshoots of the arcs cross down to tough their support.
It becomes difficult to split your desires between the main branch (for a branch indeed it is) and it's twig. The going becomes slower, allowing you to work only two at a time. You complete the third ring as Haegr and Alain return. Shutting out your close friend and the impudent man-child you continue your work.
It is a hand on your shoulder that snaps you out of your trance. A twig falls from a branch. "What!" you snap, immediately regretting it as Haegr removes his hand and comes around before you. "Sorry Haegr."
He sits down holding a large wooden hoop. "That's all we found of the spare wheel. The spokes broke against a rock and this rolled free. A good hoop it is, now that you recognize it as the outer wheel. And lucky for you as well, for metal rims the wood and you doubt you could work such a thing.
"Leave it with me then Haegr, I believe I can grow us a wheel."
"Why don't you just turn into a massive hawk and fly us, witch." Alain buts in.
"Because I'd be too tempted to drop you, impudent boy." Alain flinches. "I should be able to grow it by, um." You have no idea how long you've been sitting here, "How long were you gone?"
"Left at First Eye, it's First Throne is ending now." You cringe, you were entranced for that long? "I think I can be finished before the day is out."
"Maybe you should just make spokes," Haegr offers.
"Because I'm not a wheelwright, I don't know how to make wheels. I know how to sew!" You snap at him for a second time today and he backs off. "Sorry Haegr, it's distresses me."
He kneels down and gives you a sympathetic hug, "I'll tend to Ol' Jackney." Putting his feet beneath him he motions to Alain, "You're with me boy." You stifle a snicker. Haegr couldn't have more than a year on Alain, but his beard is growing in thick already, granting him the illusion of age.
Head clear and interruptions finished, you set your fire and silver thread of cool to the wheel.
***
Second Throne fills the sky by the time you finish. It's not a perfect recreation of the ducal doily, but close enough. Haegr fits the elaborate wheel on the axel and, with Alain's reluctant help, locks it in place. Before you load up you take Alain's advice. Gripping the exposed axel firmly, you fill it with your fire, searching for injuries to mend. Thinking it better safe than sorry, you perform this maintenance on the second axel, as well as the majority of the coach.
With everything safe for travel, you stop to consider your most recent conundrum: Alain.
What do you do?
A) Hold him as prisoner, under the threat of violence. He could ought you at any moment and must be controlled.
B) Reason with him, show him your not a raider. He's inexperienced enough to change his mind and young enough to enjoy rebellion.
C) Bribe him with coin and ducal favors. Every soldier knows hunger's ache and envy's prick, a full stomach and good coin may silence him better than reason or violence.
If we can actually show him that we are an ally his loyalty will be much stronger to us than through bribery or intimidation.
I think I'll go with B, too. I suspect the boy is talking trash because he's scared. Slapping him only increased his fear. I don't think she should trust that he would keep his mouth shut even if she goes out of her way to show him she means him no harm. Maybe she could do something like invite him to sit with her in the carriage and Ol' Jackney. There she could attempt to comfort Ol' Jackney and keep an eye on the lad while trying to converse with the scared young man.
Oh, she won't be sitting in the carriage. The last vote was to fix and move the carraige by whatever means necessary. Fox will be pulling the coach.
If they are waiting for morning, B still works. If not, I'm changing my vote to A. He should be bound and gagged and possibly hidden somewhere in the coach until they get somewhere where they can leave him. It would be more prudent to simply leave him on the side of the road though.
-Sarena
Brushing the dust off your clothing you make a final inspection of the coach. Everything appears to be in it's place and, with all your fine magic, well repaired. You hand the wheel to Haegr, "Could you put this on if the coach is already up? I want to talk to Alain." Alain, behind Haegr, pales slightly.
Haegr is too happy to object, indeed, he's been riding a wave of joy since you came out of your fever-dream. Quickly and steadily your large companion sets himself to fitting and securing the wheel. You make your way over to Alain somewhat slowly. How should I argue this you wonder, he's sure to have been raised hating Northerners. Not that you find anything wrong with that. You don't want him to love northerners, just not hate you. Of course, he didn't hate you until he knew about your shapeshifting.
You glance at Alain, oh yes. Hate is written all over his features.
So, what you need to do then is convince him that you're not a northerner. Shouldn't the livery already have done that? It could be stolen, you consider, although Barridurn's Keep is far south of here it's not inconcievable. Holding discourse in your mind slowly becomes tiring. "Alain," you begin, "I-"
"Save it witch." You noticed he avoided the use of a different term. Well, maybe you can slap some sense into people.
Patiently, you continue, "As I was saying," Alain turns and starts walking away. Fine, you can yell, "AS I WAS SAYING, SOLDIER BOY, I AM NOT A WITCH." It's entirely possible that that is not technically true, but you're not one to call your own bluffs.
Blood rises on the back of Alain's neck, "Really? You change into animals, the forest does your bidding, and your touch burns like a bonfire." He turns around. The bright red welt from your last slap has formed a slight blister.
Oops.
"I'm sorry about the slap, but you called me a **** and I won't tolerate it." You stop yourself before expounding on your virginity. It's not to the point and it isn't any of his business anyhow. "Simply put, I won't tolerate your name calling any more than you would tolerate my calling you of names." You take a deep breath, "Alain."
Some of the ire slips from his face. Not all, but some is something, right? "I have not told you any lies and Haegr only told you lies that protected me." You haven't, you think, although the day you tumbled out of the caravan wrapped up in Haegr seems to have passed a year ago. "Yes, I can turn into animals and yes, I can sew with plantlife, and yes my slap burned you which, if I may say so, I didn't know it could or I wouldn't have slapped you that hard, but I'm not a barbarian. I'm not a raider. I come from a freeman farmer's family in Barridurn's Watch, I was pressed into the service of the Duke as a child and I am here, begrudgingly, at his bidding." Take a breath. "I don't know how any of it works and, to be a little honest, I'm not overly concerned with why. Hey, it kept you alive though, remember?"
He looks blankly at you. Blank is better than angry.
"You were pinned beneath the coach."
"My legs were caught, yes. Haegr found a bull." His voice trails off pensively. You let him follow it. "You weren't there. I thought, I thought it looked a little like you." Silently you quash a rising irritation; you look absolutely nothing like a bull. "But, it was a fever-dream. He found a relatively small bull, made lift the coach off it's side and moved it to a nearby stump. He let the bull go because it wasn't his to keep."
"It was me!" you blurt out, dying under the weight of Alain's ponderous thought process. "I was the bull, I turned into a bull and saved your life." Frustrated you plop down onto a stump that may or may not have been two feet to your right just a moment ago. "Also, lets not forget that fixing the coach wheel means you don't have to walk all the way to the next town, which happens to be a trade-meet where I spent gods know how many days trapped as a horse."
Alain looks at you funny, "Trapped?"
"Well, yes. Something about some powder or another." A light turns on in Alain's eyes.
"The bandits!" He takes a seat, "that stole our horses! One of them healed me with his shaman magic."
You snort, "Yes, I suppose so. They are northerners, by the way, and a real pain in my... butt." Alain offers you a cruder word.
"Why'd they do that if they were stealing our horses?"
"Well," you curse yourself for highlighting your honesty, "he and I have a past." Alain scrunches up his face, "No! Not the big one, his lord, err... perhaps leader... possibly king. Besides, it's not like it's a long history."
Alain smirks and your tempting to smack that grin off his face, "And not like that either." Mr. Lion's impeccible form draws itself up from the depths of your imagination. Words like piercing blue eyes, great iron thews, powerful physical predator vie with you for attention. "He tried to kidnap me and we had a fight, alright? Stop imagining me naked!" You're not sure where the last bit came from but the smirk disappears from Alain's face.
Oh my Gods. He was imagining it. "I'll smack you again so hard boy." He shirks away in play, partially. A small hint of fear dances behind his eyes. You exhale, "I'm sorry. Just, don't."
"I've never heard of northern shamans reading minds," he offers.
Your turn to smirk, "I don't need to read minds to know what you're thinking." Alain's not so bad. Strapping farm lad drafted into the military by your guess. "Anyway, I'm not a witch, I'm not a raider shaman, and I have no intention of harming you or anyone else. Do you understand."
The expression fades from Alain's face and his thoughts return to duty. "How do I know you don't mean any harm? It could be a grand trick." His face hard, but curious, stares at you.
"Well, I tell you what. We're going to pass that trade-meet on our way, why don't you idley chat with them? Just don't mention me unless you're sure I'm a raider. Is that fair, Alain."
Curiosity wins him over, "What are they going to say."
"How should I know, I can't read minds." You both smile and Haegr ambles over, finished with the wheel.
"Wheel's on, whose ready for a ride?" You look bemusedly at him as he grins and rubs his hard-worked hands together.
"A ride? Does that mean you'll be pulling the coach?" Haegr takes a step back.
"Well I-" his hands are out making movements and his mouth inventing all kinds of new phrases.
"I'm teasing you Haegr. Strap me in in a moment." Alain gets up from the ground and falls into step on the other side of you.
Relief is written clean and clear across his features. You notice something you've never noticed before. You have no trouble reading Haegr's expressions, indeed it was as though he wore a sign where his every thought was written. Until now, you never knew how much you appreciated that.
Pain arcs through your body and limbs as you change shapes bereft of your normal emotional rush. Not so bad as the last time you tried it, but still far from pleasant. Perhaps someday this will be less painful.
Once the proper size, Alain has the chance to appraise you, "You mean you can turn into a boy?" He asks aloud and promptly shuts his mouth. Perhaps he meant to keep that in his head. You bellow softly and Haegr grins.
"Only one kind of bull I know of boy." Alain mildly protests that he knew that.
Haegr has trouble with the horse harnesses and settles for using one to strap about your neck and two about your chest, lashing them to the protruding posts with rope. You are already moving as he settles himself alongside Alain at the driver's seat, Ol' Jackney laying limply in the back.
A whipcrack fills the air and you stop dead in your tracks. Craning your neck you see Haegr, gleefully swinging the stubby whip through the air. You bellow crossly. "Sorry Fox," he lies through his teeth like a scummy dog, "got to be believable. Never met an ox or a bull that would move without provocation." He cracks the whip again and shouts "Hya!"
There will be revenge. Once Ol' Jackney is safe.
***
You drive through the night and reach the trade-meet just before First Eye. You can tell Alain is eager to question the locals but Haegr takes firm control of all interactions, insisiting on a place to stay their coach and immediate aid for Ol' Jackney.
It pains you not to be able to change shapes and stay with the old man, but doing so would draw a great deal of suspicion. Your thoughts go with him as Haegr and Alain carry him to the tent of a supposed physician.
You stamp idly in your pen, having flashbacks from your time here as a horse. You saw Mark and James on the way in, though made no great show of it.
Thus it is you standing in a relatively small pen, eating some grass (it's delicious, why is it delicious?) when a child of no more than seven years reaches the edges of your pen, crawls to the top of the planks, and leaps on to your back yelling "Hya" and kicking you with his heels (though you barely notice through your thick hide).
WHAT DO YOU DO?
After a lap around the pen she could lower herself to the ground kind of regally like a bow of sorts. Basically, give the kid a show.
As I see it at the moment we have a 2-2 for 'play with kid - don't play with kid'.
Or instead of that, we could change shape. That would do either of two things:
One: It could scare the kid. He'd run off to tell someone, and by the time he got back we'd be a bull again munching on some grass.
Two: The kid becomes totally fascinated. You could spend some time telling him some stories, and you'd find another person who isn't horrified by your "witchy" ways.
-Sarena
Changing shape is too risky and standing still is too boring. I say take the middle opportunity, and trot around a little so the kid can get a ride.
You smile (as well as a bull might smile) and move your ample frame dociliy about the pen. The boy-child incessantly yips and haws, kicking you with his heels. At least, you think that's what that repetitive tapping on your sides is. You can barely feel the weight of the kid atop you. Rather getting into the show, you snort softly and utter a long low bellow.
The kid screams extatically. One hand raised to the sky and the other clutching the back of your neck he yells "WEEEEE!" You pick up the pace slightly, careful not to dislodge the child. Trotting in circles about your pen you take a moment to brush away your panic regarding Ol' Jackney's fate. It's quite liberating and, within moments, you are prancing, doing your best to follow his direction (he's yelling instructions at you).
Lifting your head, you ruffle up the skin on your back, urging him forward. The boy slides down to your neck and takes hold of your massive horns. Squeeling gleefully he turns them to point you in the right direction. You stop just before colliding with the fence and turn about, trotting on. His noises vary between giggling, squeeling, and laughting uproariously. For you, it's a welcome change of pace. You bellow softly with him as he rides your massive neck.
At some undefined point, you realize the child's bladder control is somewhat lacking. A (what you assume to be) concerned parent rushes over to the side of the pen. "Landry! What on earth are you doing?"
"Peeing on my neck," you bellow back, which obviously comes out as a long hrrruunnh!
"Mom!" he yells back, squeeling and peeing in delight, "I'm riding a bull!" Arbitrarily you decide his ride has come to an end. You gently but insistently make your way towards the concerned parent and move the child closer to the fence despite his insistence that you go somewhere else. The mother lifts the wet panted child from your back and her posture eases considerably.
"What do you saw to the bull that chose not to gore your silly self and trample you underfoot?"
"Thanks bull!" He squeels and waves.
"Why'd you pee on me!" you bellow back, slightly longer and higher.
"Come on Landry, don't you ever do anything at all like that ever again!" The contrast between concern and relief twists and tugs her words. "I'm going to beat your butt bloody right after I tell your father what you did you little rabbit!" The boy breaks down in tears.
"You better cry, neck peer!" You bellow after him.
Shortly afterwards they're gone and you're left to your own devices. You spend a few moments trying to clean your neck and find it absolutely impossible. You spend a few moments more wishing cows has less impressive senses of smell.
The irritation leaves you as your mind comes back to your current situation. Ol' Jackney unconscious, Alain fearsomely irritated with you (which you now note that you haven't seen him) and suspecting you're a shaman raider (oh right, he's with Ol' Jackney). You lay down and rest your head against the earth, like you'd seen Bull do in your dreams. It's quite surprisingly uncomfortable. Come to think of it, you've never seen a bull lay like that before and wonder quietly why he chooses to lay that way.
You spot Alain in the distance, making his way towards you. He is joined by a tall, thin man. They briefly exchange a series of questions that you cannot hear and continue towards your camp together. The thin man is carrying a decent sized sack. Curious, you amble over towards their edge of the fence and bellow softly. As they approach, their conversation touches your ears.
"...and she tells me I ought to bring over a sack of grain. Well, me not thinking about it I argued with her. Let me tell you, she argue's the only Mon could beat. Whether she has a point or not she just keeps arguing 'til I give in." Alain laughs alongside the man.
"I know just how you feel. The women in my life win by attrition if they can't win any other way." He looks pointedly at you. You never waged a war of attrition against him! Though, maybe he'd have seen it that way.
"Yep. I still can't believe he let my boy ride him around the pen like that, must be an easy bull to work."
"I think he just likes kids. Hasn't given me anything but trouble my whole life." Who is he talking about? You, you're not a h- oh way, yes you are a he right now. The weight sensation between your legs reminds yo- oh, oh no (you interupt yourself twice in as many seconds). You bellow fiercely. If he wants you to give him trouble you will damn well give him trouble.
Unfortunately, Alain only laughs. "See, nothing but trouble for me. Maybe I should hire your boy to take care of her." Both men laugh. The taller, thinner man, apparently the boy's father, upends the sack and dumps a pile of oats into a bucket. Raw oats should not smell that good.
"I would have kept arguing you know, food is food and all, if it hadn't been for those bull stories."
Alain's attention obviously peaks, "What'd those be, friend?"
"Did you just get her lad?" Alain does not chafe at that so much as he did soldier-boy. But the man before him is at least 30. "Some great and massive bull ran off a whole army of raiders led by a thrice-damned shaman. Quite a terrifying sight really. I can't for the life of me figure when I got behind it and charged. Just a nasty nasty business."
"Is that so?" Alain takes a seat on a stool, "What happened?"
The tall man sits on another stool not far away. You amble closer to the pile of oats against your will and begin munching softly on them. You suspect there will be hell to pay when you change back.
"The trade-meet had been up for a week or so. I was doing alright, bought an older draught horse for plowing and sold a pony that wandered into my fields last winter. Good horse, but wild if you know." Alain casts a knowing eye towards you and laughs. Impertenint! "Got the horses traded and all, my folk were ready to turn round and go on back. But that night, raiders came pouring out of the woods north and west of here. Didn't seem them coming or nothing. They got my eldest in that wave, you know, Alren. Spear through the heart," the man jabs himself in the chest with two fingers as if to emphasis the point, "dead just like that. It'll be hard years without him."
Blood flows slowing into Alain's face and his feature's harden. You can tell he's throwing you an unkind look. Mustering all a bull's facial muscles you throw him back a 'go-to-hell' snort.
"So I turn to hear the fighting, and fighting there was, all around. Wild men in leathers and pain with swords and fire. Lit the main tent on fire. Horses were kicking and screaming, dying in the flames. That's where Alren went to try and help with the horses. I never found out of that pony survived. The main tent was a trap, I figure that now. People were running to free up their merchandise and found barbarian spears instead." The old man takes a slow breath and pulls his lost strand of composure back together. You resist the rage burning in your gut. Charging blindly in a northern direction to kill and maim probably wouldn't do you any good.
Might make you feel better though.
Alren's father continues, "They lit a few more tents on fire. The Trade-Lord of the meet lead his men up against the barbarians, poor bastard. Not weak men mind you, just, they weren't here for anything other than keeping order and resolving disputes. Mostly mercenaries on pay, I'm told. I tucked my Sarah behind some barrels and stuffed Landry in an empty one beside her. Didn't have any weapons mind, just a pitchfork. I ran off to find Alren and get us moving." Alren's father pull's his chair a little closer to the pen and leans against the wooden slats. "That's when I felt it. At first I thought my heart was giving out, seeing as it quivered and rippled strangely. Then I realised I felt it in my legs and arms as well, some deep rattling."
"I spun around twice, trying to figure out what it was. Thought maybe it was an earthquake or some shaman trick. Then I saw a fence crushed under the weight of a hoof and I looked up. Standing over the towering flames was a bull. Twice as large as the main tent and blue-black as a raven. I knew we were damned to death then. Some shaman, I figured, nasty sort and all bound to crush us beneath his hooves. The hoof was so close I couldn't help myself. I stabbed it with my pitchfork but the bastard, I thought in the moment, was so big he didn't even feel it."
You kick your hoof slightly, had someone stabbed you in it? You don't quite remember. There was a lot to not remember. Besides, you know how big you were. If you did bear a pitchfork prick on your hoof, it'd be too small to recognize now. "Then it started bellowing up a storm. Knocked over fences and tents, blew me off my feet. Sure I was about to die, I made my peice and hoped for a place in Monlorn." Perhaps the most heart-rending portion of the story is over, for Alren's father has begun to speak with his hands as much as his tongue. "As I'm making peace with myself and my fathers, the bull steps forward and scoops up a barbarian on the tip of it's horn. The bastard screamed and wretched as he died on it." You're not sure you wanted to hear that, or the glee in the man's voice as he juts his pointing hand in the air, saying "Just like that!"
Dead son; you cut him some slack.
"He carried that screaming bastard all the way with him, like a wailing flag." You did? You don't remember carrying him, though you don't remember dislodging him either. Images of yourself toting a dying screaming man make you gag. Alain shoots you a cautionary look and you go back to grinding oats between your teeth, no longer swallowing them. "Ran over another one just a bit later, crushed him like a fallen tree." His savage joy is becoming disturbing, despite the slack you're giving him. Alain looks completely undisturbed. "I picked up and ran after it." At this point Alren's father begins to stutter and look befuddled. "I, um, I can't really say I know why. It felt right, you know boy?"
Alain nods noncommitally, "I chased after it cause I wanted it's help. Fight off the bastards and all that. Trample every one of them beneath my feet. It moved faster than I could though. By the time I caught up with him he was bellowing like a mad bull, stomping and snorting. Arrayed behind him were a bunch of the trade-meeters and the Trade Lord's whole surviving band of mercenaries. People were hooting and hollaring like they'd lost their damned minds." He hesitates and looks at Alain, "I think that I might have started too," he offers in a hushed voice, "whooping and yelling like a damned fool. Waving my pitchfork around like it was a magic spear. That bull drove us all mad with blood lust and as much as it want to, I can't deny that I loved it. It was like being ten feet tall and made of stone." Alren's father leans forward, "He lit off like a falling rock, the bull I mean. I didn't see until his legs were moving that there was a bear, nearly as big, behind all the barbarians. I think I lost my bowels while running, you understand? Cause we all charged with him, the bull. All of us ten feet tall and made of stone. It wasn't as though there was much for us to do. His horns broke nearly all of them. We were chasing behind, putting down the injured and dogpiling the rest. I think," his voice breaks slightly, "I think I killed a man with my pitchfork. Not that I regret it at all, no, I remember praying to Tor that it was the boy that killed Alren. Praying so hard that I shouted my boy's name as I gored him between the tines."
Alren's father leans back up and stops whispering, "After that, I saw the bear go down. It swatted at the bull but that didn't do it any good. He kept charging, stampeding almost, right through the grizzly bastard. Tossed the bear on it's side and gouged it through the chest. Pinned it there for a good while while it struggled." You did? No you didn't, it died right away, right?
No, you remember, you were thrumming with your victory surge. You don't remember how long you held it down. Oh dear. You gag violently and Alain runs over to snag your horn in a hand. The weight of the resistance forces you to split your pick. Violent retching and his soothing voice vie for control ('he uses his mouth for things other than being an ass', blurts out a tiny voice in the back of your mind, 'who knew?'). You calm down, your stomachs settle slowly.
"S'rong with your bull Mister?"
"I don't feed it oats much, never nice enough to earn them. I think he ate too fast and it's giving him issue." Alain is a very good lier.
"Sorry about that, I suppose I ought to have brought a few less."
"No worries Tendry," ah, Alren's father has a name, "I appreciate it greatly. What happened next?"
Tendry looks somewhat confused before remembering what he was all about, "Oh, that! The bull walked away. Don't know where it went. I had a powerful urge to follow it but it just didn't seem right. The Trade Lord ran after it with a hatful of grain as an offering. I heard it ate the whole hatful in a gulp. If I had to guess, I'd say it ambled off to Monlorn." Tendry sags visibly with relief. Perhaps he'd been waiting to get all that out. Alain was a stranger after all, unlikely to meet again.
"That's a hell of a story Tendry. I'm real sorry about your boy."
"Landry? Oh, he'll be fine. Seems your bull didn't take much stock in bucking." Alain shakes his head and Tendry follows his thoughts, "Oh." Tendry is silent for a while, "thats kind of you." Tendry gets up to go, putting the empty sack over his shoulder. "Fare you well Alain. As soon as I can find a draught horse to pull my plow I'll be headed out. You and your friends are welcome over for lentil stew if you like. If he pulls through."
Oh damn! He meant Ol' Jackney. Immediately you want to become human and demand details from Alain. On the other hand, you're in no place to swap shapes. And poor Tendry, probably not well off. "What do you mean?" Alain asks, "I thought you bought one."
"We did," Tendry shrugs, "I think raiders got off with it before the Bull came through. I'll not begrudge a horse over my family though."
Do you try to help Tendry out?
Sure, he paid good money for her when she was a horse. He at least deserves to get some work done to offset the loss.
No. Because of reasons Darkspartan has stated.
Even doing a little WILL result in an offer, and it would be bad politics to refuse, especially since he's been bitching about what kind of ugly and bad-tempered we're supposed to be. Remember?. He doesn't like us much already. Are we prepared to trust Alain and wind up having to rob this man yet again when we up and leave?
No.
-Sarena
Prior to today (and, well, forcing him to stampede the enemy raiders) you've never met Tendry or his family. He is quite the stranger.
You watch Tendry and Alain part ways, Alain waving and Tendry dutifully carrying his empty sack back to his family. Alain stands there for a moment, a pensive thought on his face. You bellow softly and slowly to gather his attention. "I'm thinking." he replies.
You bellow in consternation, 'What about Ol' Jackney' you demand (hrruuonngh). Alain seems unaware of your reasoning and resumes his thoughtful pose. You beat the slats of your pen with your head four or five times before he gives you his attention. "What is it Fox? You're acting like Landry fell down a well for Gods' sake!" You snort sarcastically and, from the look on his face, you think that might have gotten your feelings across. "Don't blame me you can't talk like that. I'm still not sure what to do about you."
You paw at the dirt with your hoof. Alain stares at you for a moment, perhaps catching your drift. "The physician doesn't know about him. He's still out cold." Your bellow is low and painful. How many days has it been? Two, three since you were back here? Add one more just to guess how long were were unconscious on the road and that puts Ol' Jackney out for three or four days, which is about three or four days too long. "I'm sorry Fox," (a small voice in the back of your mind comments on how he's calling you Fox instead of Bull or Shaman ****) "I'll go see what they've learned.
But you want to know too!
What do you do?
A) Find someplace to turn back into a human.
B) Get loose and wander over to the physician's tent.
C) Sit and wait for word, not matter how frustrating.
If I can offer a suggestion, while still in bull form, encourage Alain to take "his bull" for a walk to settle her stomach. Out in a meadow somewhere, she can transform and talk to Alain about his change of heart and also be able to walk back with him to the physician to find out about Ol' Jackney. If they are going to be in town for a while because Ol' Jackney is worse off than we think then maybe she can help Tendry.
I say A. Fox needs to have a little discussion with Alain about his change of heart. Maybe if she finds out where his head is at, then they can help Tendry, but first she has to find out about Ol' Jackney.
If I can offer a suggestion, while still in bull form, encourage Alain to take "his bull" for a walk to settle her stomach. Out in a meadow somewhere, she can transform and talk to Alain about his change of heart and also be able to walk back with him to the physician to find out about Ol' Jackney. If they are going to be in town for a while because Ol' Jackney is worse off than we think then maybe she can help Tendry.
This; plus, if she's human, perhaps she can make amends for Landry losing his "pony".
-Sarena
You mosey over to the gate, a simple wooden latch and stare expectantly at it. Alain follows you, on the other side of the fence. "What?"
You snort in return. Alain stares at you blankly; can he be this dense? You snort again, gently lunging at the gate. Obviously confused, Alain nevertheless unlatches and opens the gate for you. Trotting proudly out you are surprised when he snags you by a horn. "Shh, people don't just walk their bulls. Where are you trying to go?" This calms you down immensely.
"Hidden spot," you say in the form of a short bellow. He stares at you, again blankly. Moving slowly ahead, you lead Alain to what appears to be a small copse of trees, well hidden from the populace of the trade-meet. Slowly (and again, painfully) you change into a human. The burning sensation from the compaction and reshaping of your form fades slowly, from everywhere except your ear. Reaching out you touch it, finding Alain's hand still attached. "Let go you oaf!"
Alain looks at you, shocked when he realizes he's pinching your ear. "Sorry miss." Oh, Miss now? Quite curious. "Um, what do you want to do and how am I going to explain my missing bull?"
Good questions, ones perhaps that you didn't quite think through. "I don't really know how you'll explain it, but you're clever; you'll manage." Obviously your faith in him does nothing to boost his confidence. "Um, you could always have it off mating with someones cow?" It's not a bad idea, though you try to ignore the snickering in the back of your head, which points out he'd be telling people it was you off mating with a cow.
Relief washes over his face and Alain straightens up. "So, what did you want to do?"
You're already walking out of the copse and towards the coach, "See Jackney." Your mind forces you to slow down and, even still, you plow forward in haste; all but running. You pass the coach, where Alain stops, and through the trade-meet towards the brightly marked physician's tent. A sign, which reads physician in blocky uneven letters, highlights Ol' Jackney's location and yet, despite your rush, you stop at the entrance to the canvas shelter. What if Ol' Jackney is already dead? Do you want to peak in on a dead man after his final moments (though you've seen plenty of dead already this trip (and made a few more your sarcastic monologue reminds you))? Is Haegr there, will he let you cry on him if Ol' Jackney dies?
Poised on the brink of panic, you stand at the cloth flap through which the man you once called 'Coachman' lies. You turn about, hair flinging itself this way and that as you pace inconsolably. You haven't even entered the tent and you're sure he's dead (he probably is) or worse, dying. Putting up your nose you sniff gently, noting that your sense of smell is either quite improved or the trade-meet is quite odorous and really, it could easily be either. You smell sickness, the stink of infection (Oh Gods, is that Jackney?) and tang of blood. What you wouldn't give for that potion from Gorsmeet now! Maybe a trip back, find another physician, or an adventurer! That's it, run off, find an adventurer, be back before Ol' Jackney dies (if he's not already dead)! Easy as, nothing that's easy in the slightest.
Moistness wells in your eyes.
"Enough!" you whisper harshly at yourself (it does not help with the moistness). You steel yourself before lifting the flap to the tent and poking your head inside. It would be roomy if not for the myriad if injured men trussed up in cots and on the floor. A bloodshot harried physician is moving back and forth from victim to victim. His gaze locks on you and your timorous glance.
"Not a room for ladies, unless you've been injured Miss. Have you been injured?" The question sounds more like a declaration of surrender.
"No, I'm with Haegr." He buttons his lip and demands the attention of his assistant. Only now do you recognize your childhood friend dressed in a white apron administering ointment and salves and, currently, holding down a man with a large bit of wood lodged in his shoulder. He glances up as the physician jerks at the broken spear out and holds a white-now-red cloth against the wound.
It's a damn nightmare. It's the aftermath of your heroic battle. "Fox?" Haegr looks confused, his mass easily keeping the screaming man from trashing about in pain, "what's wrong."
The cloth flap of the door is quite remarkable, you realize, because at this moment you can't smell anything but infection and death. "I, uh," you suppress a gag, "came to see Jackney." Hidden in a little corner of the room is your ragged coachman, resting peacefully on a bed of straw.
"You might want to see him this evening."
The physician snaps his fingers, "Lady's Mantle assistant, grab me the lady's mantle." Haegr releases the patient (the doctor immediately throws all of his weight on the small man to keep him still) and filters through the physician's case.
"There's not much left, Jorm." The physician curses vehemently.
"Bring it anyhow." A cough behind you catches your attention. Two largish men, dressed in dull colors push past you, forcing you inside the tent. They look to the beleaguered physician for direction. "Over there, next to the old man." They walk towards Ol' Jackney and pick up a man laying a few inches to his left. Only now you notice his inanimately still. As they pass, infection, decay, and death war for dominance in your nose.
Silent curses, most of them learned from Haegr, flow freely through your mind. "I'll be just a minute Jorm." The physician growls at Haegr to keep it quick and he leads you out of the tent. "Fox, I need your help."
"Done."
"There are so many herbs we're running out of, medicines and such." Your little voice notes how quickly Haegr leapt into this mode.
"Assistant!"
"Take these," he pushes a bundle of different leaves into your hand, "and grow them, please?"
How could you say no. Before you can respond Haegr's pulling back in the tent. You steady yourself against the tent wall as the world whirlwinds around you. Damnit, weren't you happily giving a piggy back ride five minutes ago!
Haegr gives each leaf a name and a brief description. It seems that there are only a few groups, though they do their work differently. You run-almost-fly back to the coach. "Alain!" you holler, catching the youth by surprise as he doses. "Help me with this." you yell in passing. The poor drowsy man staggers after you. Quick feet carry you to that secluded copse of trees.
"What?" he demands, slowly catching up to you.
"What are these leaves?" He points out a few, giving them names.
"Why, where did you get them?"
You choke back a mix of tears and gagging, "In the physician's tent-"
"You robbed the physician!" He gasps, mouth hanging open and eye's bugged out, "What in the world did you do a stupid thing like that fo-". He's not the only person that knows how to interrupt.
"Haegr gave them to me, he wants me to grow them."
"That's a stupid idea, most of those take a least three months to grow." You throw him a stink eye, "oh. Right."
"I just don't think I can grow them all at once, what do they do?" He stops for a second and thinks. He can't name them all, but a few he recognizes.
What do you grow?
A) Wort and Blissweed to kill pain.
B) Golden Rod and Wicket to stop bleeding.
C) Churl's Coat and Garlic to fight infection.
D) Try to grow them all anyway, lives must be saved!
-Sarena
"I don't understand why Haegr robbed the physician." He begins to irritate you.
"He's not robbing the physician, damnit Alain! They're running out of them and if I can grow some extras it should help." A light slowly flickers in Alain's eyes. "Understand?"
"Sure, ok. Look, rot is an awful way to die but its not usually a problem for half a day. Grow the Golden Rod and Wicket."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious." You cut off his reply with a sharp gesture and flop down onto your but, crossing your legs. You dump the leaves into your lap and pluck the lancelike goldenrod leaves and the fuzzy wicket leaves from your pile. "Here goes." Immediately the leaves bloom into life, gaining a health green glow their severely dehydrated selves lacked.
"Ma'am?"
"Hush." You continue, though it takes little effort to regrow their stems it consumes many precious minutes. The goldenrod takes longer than the wicket and you reportion your belly fire. Within a half hour you've managed one whole plant of each: roots, stems, leaves, buds, flowers et al. Sighing, you let everything go for a second, drained and fatigued. Alain has, remarkably, remained quiet and polite for the duration. "I don't think that's going to do a lot of good, is it?"
Alain fails to disguise his discomfort, "No ma'am, I one plant each will help much. Maybe you should plant them."
"They're not going to grow any faster in the ground Alain, remember? Its 'a stupid idea, most of these take months to grow'."
"Sure," his voice cautious, "but you look like hell. Maybe if they weren't dangling in midair it would be easier." He takes a shuffled step back for good measure and his hands surreptitiously move closer to his crotch.
As if you'd actually hit him there when it's his mouth you'd like to hush.
Then again... You drag up the memory of knitting Haegr's blanket-cloak and the mending of the wheel. Both times you had something more than a stem (that niggling voice is telling you your missing something) to support your plant. "Maybe you're right." But why stop there? "Alain, fetch some water as well, we're going to move over to the bull pen.
For once he follows your train of thought (was he a farmer before?). As you leap to your feat the mound of leaves flies from your lap, scattering over the area. The magnitude of your mistake overcomes you. "Damnit!" You howl, causing Alain to turn about. "I dropped them," you yell at him, "I dropped them all."
The soldier quickly returns to your side, lowering himself to his hands and knees as he slowly plucks individual leaves from the ground. He mutters something about needles and haystacks that you choose to ignore. Scrabbling in the dirt, you do your best to pick out what you remember, although you're not sure if a few of them are from the physician or the local wildlife. "Don't panic." He says, perhaps a bit later than it would have been helpful. Visions of men bleeding, men unconscious, men with bits sticking out of them swim in her eyes.
Your little voice, that blessed little bastard, keeps telling you that a few minutes won't kill anyone but you can't quite accept that. You stop, completely, and remind yourself to breathe. It's not an actual emergency. It's ok to calm down and take things steadily.
Not that your racing heart believes you. "Ma'am, why don't you go grow the goldenrod and wicket? I can keep searching here." Good idea. You pat him on his back, somewhat calmer than before (though that's no great feat), and hustle towards the pen. You don't hesitate to stuff them into the patties you'd made earlier that day, it's not as though you didn't have to move them as a child. With the plants firmly entrenched in dung, you will your heart to slow down as you pull on the belly fire which, as it were, burns all the brighter in your mania.
You reach out and touch the plants with it. They bloom full and healthy, radiant in the pile of poop. The sight of the plants is comforting as they grow, calming. Your racing heart slows down further. Right about the point where your goldenrod is three feet high and your wicket curling over itself and onto the pen you realize having enormous plants sprouting from the ground could draw negative attention. You muse softly over how to handle this conundrum.
Some distance away you can hear Alain's approach. "I'd be a lot better off if they'd just seed." You mention casually. The soldier comes to stand beside you, grinning. It's been something under a half hour.
"I think I found them all, though some of these might just be lavender. They look just like churl's coat leaves." He pulls out his purse and empties the contents (a one silver and ten copper churls) into his hand, dumping the leaves held dutifully in the bowl of his upraised shirt into the purse. "Here, you probably won't drop it now." You blush slightly.
"It was an accident." Alain smiles.
"I believe you." He looks over the plants, "I don't think Goldenrod is supposed to get much larger than that. Perhaps I should harvest it? That would cover at least a few small wounds.
"You can strip the leaves if you want. I think I'm going to try to make it bloom and seed. Alain sets about stripping leaves from the stem and stuffing them in the makeshift herb pouch. You're not sure why you panicked so badly (your monologue threatens to answer that question and you stuff it back down). Pulling gently on your belly fire you push it up into the goldenrod's flowers. The bloom, then wilt and turn into white puffy seed packs. A firm shake sends them tumbling into the patty and the earth around it. "Go grab another patty."
Alain looks disgruntled for a moment, but obeys. You reach out, finding many dozen tiny seeds. Dragging on the belly fire, you push it indiscriminately into the crap. Nothing much happens, save two dozen or see tiny sprouts pushing through the earth. You're strong, but there are so many seeds. Alain returns, looking displeased at his hands. "I actually wanted to avoid this portion of my life for a while."
Ahh, that settles it; farmer.
"I'm sorry you had to get your hands dirty. Does it help to know where that came from?" He blanches, "good, nowdrop my poop." Alain throws you a dirty look a releases the mound of dung. You pull harder on your belly fire, pushing it into the dung. The pile of poo does insteed smell ranker with your help, and even more seeds sprout, but none of them come near to fully growing.
Sweat beads upon your brow drip impatiently as time passes. You nurse some small number of the sprouts into full growth, though they're no more than a foot high. Time is passing too quickly, already an hours has passed. "Alain, why don't you take those goldenrod leaves to Haegr and come back. Strip the wicket too."
Head down and silent Alain goes to work on the wicket vine which curls about the fence posts and disappears. You drop your strangling grip on the belly fire and rock back from your knees to your butt, breathing deeply. All in all your little garden is impressive. No less than three dozen shoots and two dozen sprouts in the matter of two hours. Not enough though. What Alain carried would be very little once pounded into paste.
You lean limply forward, feeling cold despite the sweat and sun, and curse softly. Moving to lay flat on your belly you reach for the fire again, drawing it out slowly and distributing it amongst the many plants before you. Alain returns half an hour later, having been drafted to mash the leaves into pulp as well.
"Ma'am, Haegr asked that you work on the garlic and churl's coat. He says that many of the wounds are starting to rot." You swear again.
"You're sure? The goldenrod is growing!" Before he can answer you grab your wits by the throat and force them into place "No, no never mind. Garlic and churl's coat it is." You never grew either, though the duke did have garlic plants within his garden. "How fast does churl's coat grow?"
Alain thinks on it, "Not too fast, though most of the plant can be used to kill wound rot. Garlic grows faster, but I don't think you can use anything but the mashed cloves." You look at him, clearly awaiting a suggestion. "I'd do the coat. If I could work plant magic."
Snagging a leaf and a new addition to their pile, a churl's coat stem, you pull on the exhausted belly fire. "Alain, strip what you can from the golden rod." You move to another portion of the pen, not waiting to see if he does as you instruct. Hefting a handful of the pungent waste, you game the stem end up in the dark matter and bury the leaf adjacent to it. Your beleaguered fire leaks out from your fingers and into plant matter. You drop to a seat and close your eyes, pressing strength further and further into the clod of crap.
***
Some hour and a half later, you've grown six full sized churl's coat plants, complete with their blooming flowers and bulbous roots. The Third Eye sits in the sky as though judging you, though where that impression came from you are unsure. Alain has since carried off the six plants to the physicians tent and you lay out on the ground, brain dead from exhaustion.
You suppose it wouldn't hurt to go see the results of your labors, though Haegr may ask more help of you. On the other hand, a good deep sleep would feel better than, well, you stifle the thought and store it away for a later day.
What do you do?
A) Go see what you can do.
B) Take a short nap.
No sense stopping now, let's see what we can do. Perhaps it's my extensive experience with insomnia, but I firmly believe that, barring emergencies, you should sleep when you need it, if you are fortunate enough to be able to do so. Besides, with our luck we'll probably need to be rested soon anyway ;) Just don't fall asleep in the open.
B, both for Erato's reasons and because she usually seems to learn something when she sleeps.
This, except near the Physician's Tent.
-Sarena
Would someone care to cast a tie breaker or should I flip a coin?
With great effort, you roll onto your belly and push yourself onto your knees. Though sleep would be a gods sent blessing right now, there are people dying. Briefly, a little voice reminds you that it's not technically your fault. You quash the little voice. Protection was what you promised and protection is what you'll give.
Whether your legs are inclined to obey or not.
One hand firmly gripping a fence post you haul yourself up from your knees and onto your relatively stable feet. Despite the weariness that grips your bones the two wooden instruments beneath your torso called legs begin functioning. Twenty steps out your balance returns to you and your legs become constructs of flesh and bone that feel every pebble beneath your feet. When did you take your shoes off? You stop to reign in your senses. There is a very specific reason that you got up off the ground, and a very specific reason that you're marching stoically towards a tent full of people that are far worse off than you.
Right, no more mucking around. One foot before the other you move on, refusing to allow your mind freedom to wander to the glories of sleep (any many those glories are!). The physician's tent looms before you but, unlike before, no panic sweeps through your chest.
"Haegr?" you ask softly, poking your head through the tent flap.
"Fox?" he whispers back, "try to be quiet, Jorm is taking a short nap."
You nod and slip through into the tent, Alain is awkwardly applying fresh bandages in the back. Apparently Jorm has drafted another assistant. "How is Jackney?" Haegr shrugs, "What does that mean." Irritation lends you some strength to fend of drowsiness.
"No better than this afternoon. No worse either. I don't think Jorm really knows what to do with him other than wait and use the smelling salts." Haegr sets himself to retying one of Alain's poorly replaced bandages. "Take this rag and wipe up that blood."
Eww.
You take the offered strip of cloth and dab away at the man's bloody arm. "I didn't know you were a physician Haegr." The big lunker grins.
"Jorm has had me changing bandages, crushing herbs, and fixing poultices all day. I wouldn't necessarily call myself a physician though." He looks over at you and smiles. The youthful brightness in his eyes has dulled slightly, though in the relative dimness of the evening tent it could just be your eyes. He shrugs, "Maybe it will work for us?"
"Maybe." He tightens up the bandage and you flinch as the man groans and slurs his curses before falling back into his sleep.
"Hey Fox?" Haegr backs away from the man, looking concerned. You turn your attention towards him, "where's our bull?"
Oh, right, "Alain lent it to a local to breed. We're to get a calf when we pass back through." Haegr nods appreciatively. Taking you by the shoulder, he leads the two of you out from the tent. You lean against him, letting him bear some of your weight. "That's clever." Your nose thanks you repeatedly for the fresh air.
"Did the plants help?" Haegr nods, "Good. I had to hold a handful of my own crap to grow them." Haegr looks surprised and then chortles. He's certainly not acting himself.
"I haven't eaten all day," he says, "are you hungry?"
"I had some grass and oats earlier." You offer, "But I would enjoy some meat, just not beef." Haegr laughs, its much softer than his normal belly roaring. "What about the physician?"
"He can boss Alain around for a while, I'm really hungry." You don't doubt it's true, but his body language and haggard appearance suggests there's more driving him away from the tent than his appetite. He looks at you, "What'll it be Fox, hard tack and salt pork or do we find a cook tent."
Because his mouth begins salivating as it trips over the words 'cook' and 'tent' you consent to finding such a place. "Have you got your purse on you Haegr?" He nods and winks.
"Couldn't bring myself to just leave it in the coach."
It hits you like a falling boulder, the gold! Weariness drops from you like a rain-slogged cloak. "Haegr, my Gods, I'd forgotten." Thoughts fly straight past your brain and out through your mouth, "We have to find horses, fine horses, that could replace Jackney's when he wakes up, and then there's food, we'll need supplies, because he said you don't trade coin with the locals, we're supposed to trade supplies, and we don't know how many pieces of jerky a horse is worth, although it's probably a lot because you could make a lot of jerky from a horse," Haegr blanches, "and even then you can only eat jerky once."
Haegr takes you firmly by the shoulders, "Breathe Fox, just slow down. I have a suspicion that they trade for coin here, seeing as people from all over are here. We'll make do with bartering further on." Your mouth ceases to form coherent words and resorts to simple sounds of astonishment and confusement. 'Gek!' and 'Hicandbelfid!' are favorites.
A mote of light filters its way back into Haegr's eyes and some portion of his youthfulness is restored. "Haegr, we're rich." you manage to whisper and he smiles broadly.
"I know, I was surprised they even made gold churls, now hush." Your head gathers enough senses to threaten him with a smacking for hushing you, "I don't think it would be wise to draw attention to the color of our coin, if you know what I mean."
Of course it wouldn't. And it's something you'd have thought of all by yourself in a minute or two (or twelve, maybe thirty) once you got over being gold struck. "I still have silver churls in the coach, maybe we should save that purse for horse trading." Haegr's broad smile disappears into a thoughtful look.
Haegr nods, "That makes sense. Good thinking." Damn skippy! That's the only kind of thinking you do. "We might even want to hide that bastard's purse while we're at it. It takes you a moment to realize he's referring to Danak.
Walking (nearly bouncing) all on your own, you lead Haegr back to the coach and retrieve your meager purse from inside. "I don't know where we're going to hide it. I suppose we could bury the thing." He suggests.
You tap your good thinking noggin, you suggest an alternate course of action. Firmly grasping the front of the coach, just beneath Ol' Jackney's seat, you tug on your belly fire and will the wood to grow. Slowly at first, vines stretch out from the seat and roll forwards, stitching their way around until the form a small tunnel just beneath the seat. Stuffing the purse inside, you will them closed. Not just closed, indeed you will them to splay out and weave in with one another.
***
The end result of twenty minutes work is a seamless wooden addition to the Ol' Jackney's seat that only you can open. Well, only you can open without an axe. You beam proudly at the hidey hole and Haegr comments on it's cleverness. The two of you set off to find a cook-tent in which to eat. They aren't plentiful, though two or three are radiating the delicious scents of cooked poultry and nearby announcers are reciting the menu. Haegr selects one next to a moderate clearing in which men and women are playing on varied instruments while others dance and whose announcer is trumpeting the majesty of their roasted duck.
The joviality of the surroundings work hard to fend off Haegr's growing bleakness. You both order duck breast soup and a roll of bread, eating slowly if ravenously (when did you get this hungry?) as music from outside serenades you.
Thus it is that you are sitting and eating when a terrible ruckus begins at the far end of the tent. Three children, no older than you when you were first conscripted into the Duke's service, can be seen by the tops of their hair, running and screaming with delight, intent on the object of their pursuit (which you cannot, from this distance, ascertain). Two cooks, armed with a cleaver and a ladle, burst into the tent in hot pursuit. As you stand to stop this vicious attack, a loud and furious 'QUACK' fills the tent and a duck leaps onto a table, deftly evading one of the children. An old biddy, sitting at the same table, howls with delight and snatches at the duck.
"Dear Gods Haegr, what's going on!" Haegr is hunched over, hands clenching his stomach, laughing hysterically. You smack the back of his shoulders.
"I think it's obvious Fox!" There's a thunk and some cursing as the duck waddles (backwards? How curious) down the length of one table, children and cooks snatching blindly at the mad duck. Haegr's laughing fit redoubles in effort as the duck leaps for freedom only to smack into the roof of the tent and fall onto another patron's head, flapping and quacking in desperation.
Two men across from you exchange wagers as to the duck's fate.
The old biddy joins the chase, hobbling after the children and slightly ahead of the cooks, who's waving cleaver and ladle are causing customers to duck and dodge for their lives. Haegr has fallen out of his chair at this point, rolling on the floor guffawing. He's not the only one. The wagers have extended all along the table, with groups cheering the duck on. Some unnoticed individual extends a boot that trips one of the chefs, no doubt furthering his chance to win.
Waddling furiously, the duck rounds the far end of the round tent, unable to find a viable exit and fast approaches you. Some memory drags itself out of your fatigue addled excitement clouded mind and demands that you pick your feet up off the floor before its too late.
Its too late.
The duck waddles with speed born of panic up to your table (in reverse) and stops for two seconds to poop on your shoe. You snatch at the little bastard only to find him off again, finally making headway towards the exit.
Leaping from your seat you join the chase. Caught up in the moment, it seems like a good idea. Your nimble legs keep you firmly ahead of the old biddy and the remaining cook (wielding a cleaver) but the children get in the way of your great strides. Your balance slips as a child gets under foot. The ground rushes up to greet you warmly and the air flees your chest on impact. As you lay there, deftly being avoided by the gaggle of children, you watch the duck waddle under the tent flap and out into the night.
With poop on your shoe.
You lay there, inert for a few moments, before gathering your feet beneath you. Monies are being exchanged, mostly to one of the men that sat across from you, as you take your seat next to Haegr (who has only managed to regain a portion of his composure. The gloom around his has, at least for the moment, disappeared completely and that, if nothing else, comforts you.
Across the table the man congratulates you on your effort and you shy away slightly. Haegr catches hold of his belly shaking laughter, if only barely, and mops his soup up with his roll. Quite unexpectedly he looks over at you and says, "Lets dance Fox."
You're front is covered in dirt and you have poop on one shoe. Staring at him, you see the gloom is not gone so much as held at bay, hiding far behind the light of laughter and raucous excitement. Still, you're dead tired, weary so deep in your bones that you're surprised they haven't revolted and gone off to have a nap themselves. The weight of the day (especially that whole 'pulling the coach' thing) drag at your heels.
What do you do?
A) Dance with him, forestall the return of this strange gloom.
B) Suggest you return to the coach and call it a night. You're going to fall asleep soon, it's just a matter of where.
C) Suggest you return to the coach and try to find out what's bother him.
I choose A but I wonder if we might be able to do the part of C where we find out what's bothering him while we're at it.
I see no one fears swooning? *Googles effects of extreme fatigue*.
-Sarena
You grin and, tossing a coin to the serving girl, slip out of the tent into the adjacent field. A the moment, seven men with swarthy skin and hawkish features and spinning around in a great circle, kicking out their feet at semi-random intervals and shouting "Kwet!" as they do so. In moments, they break apart, splaying their arms and legs out wide with reckless abandon, shouting "Kwet!" as they do so. The spirited man playing an awkward looking flute belts out a series of staccato tweets and the swarthy men finish their dance.
Laughter and joyous embraces greet them as a local tune, involving a woman with a small tinny drum and a man bearing a fiddle, picks up steam. The swarthy musician with his awkward flute listens briefly and begins playing in tune with the locals; surprising them thoroughly. It's not bad though, and soon you and Haegr and hoping and spinning around hand in hand.
One of the swarthy dancers shouts "Kwet!". It seems like a good idea so you and Haegr hop and spin some more until the refrain kicks in and you both shout "Kwet!". This earns you praise from the dusky skinned man and the other dancers join in. Because why not? Your nose deftly attempts to ignore the cumulative sense assault from the number of dancing people. You smell pungent stinging spices, roast duck, (Kwet!) unkind decay (likely clinging to Haegr), sweat, dirt, mud, and a number of things. You mind snaps to as Haegr slings you out by a hand and reels you back in with the other (Kwet!). It's not a graceful move, really a crude imitation of actual dancing, but it sufficient.
You laugh as the song picks up speed (Kwet!). You and Haegr whirl about faster and faster in tempo (Kwet!) hoping about nimbly from foot to foot (Kwet!) even though your legs burn (Kwet!) with the strain (Kwet!) and your lungs gasp for (Kwet!) relief. The refrain, a simple series of six up and down notes, begins repeating ad nauseum. "Kwet! Kwet! Kwet! Kwet! Kwet!" the crowd shouts as the song moves past the rate any human could hope to keep time with and the dancers fall into disarray, tumbling to the ground, dizzy and laughing. You hold on a brief moment longer than Haegr, who goes spinning away from you, dizzily lurching about until his butt finds the grassy ground, while you try desperately to keep time for just a moment longer. The world spins, goes topsy turvy, and you feel wet grass on your back. Laughter, even from the foreigners, resounds as the song comes to a climax and dies.
Dancers crawl off the field, some taking many attempts before they find their way off. Haegr finds you on all fours, shuffling towards what you think is a group of spectators, and helps you to your feet. You lean into him, stealing his balance for your own. He finds a stump and gingerly sets himself down on it. You lean, on hand on his shoulder, against him like a pillar until your vision stops swimming. "I don't think I've ever danced before." You gasp.
"Never?" Haegr asks, putting a hand to his head and rolling his eyes about for a solid landmark. "Not at the keep?"
"Why would I have danced at the keep?"
"I don't know, I did once in a while." Haegr must have his bearings because he's stopped leaning about. "And sometimes in town after a hunt."
"That must have been nice." You slip down onto your knees and, from that position, kick your legs forward until your sitting on your rear, hands supporting your torso. "I think I spent most of my time in the garden."
Haegr grunts. "I heard a lot about you. Catch the Fox! And all of that." You laugh, "Quite a game I heard. No one ever caught you."
"Nope," your laughter subsides, "especially after I heard about the campaign to Catch the Fox."
Haegr sighs, his features darken slightly. "Dance?" You nod in consent and gather your wobbly legs beneath you. Fatigue is taking its toll on you as you place more of your weight on Haegr, who doesn't seem to notice.
A young man and a very old man, similar enough to be grand-somethings to each other, each wielding a dented metal drum. The old man holds two fist fulls of long green twigs in his hands while the youth holds a pair of straight sticks, one for each hand. The young man begins tapping around the edges and into the centers of his dented metal drum, popping bright colorful notes out into the field while his grand-something sternly slaps his twigs against his drum, supporting his grand-whatever with raindropesque sounds.
Four people, all dressed in a similar manner, move into the center of the field and start dancing. Haegr draws you in, crudely mimicking the swift and exuberant motions of your fellow dancers. The lady with a tinny drum joins them, as does a large man with wide wooden covered drum. The notes become similar enough to dance to, though you can't move in the manner of the other dancers with your leaden limbs. After a moment or two you and Haegr resort to the dance you know, spinning about hand in hand, in beat with the drumming.
Haegr's grim mood, however, refuses to abate. Instead it appears held at bay, stuck in a soft brood and refusing to budge, despite the colorful music and dance. The pair of you dance your way out of the field and head back towards the coach in silence.
"Haegr?" you ask.
He grunts.
"What's come over you?"
He lets loose a long drawn out sigh. "Hmm?"
"I said, what's come over you. You're not acting yourself."
Haegr fails to respond and you continue towards the coach. Alain is there already, sleeping away in the semi-comfortable seats. You crawl up into the bench opposite the soldier and curl up, waiting for Haegr.
Haegr does not climb into the coach. Instead he removes his bow from the rear of the carriage and a quiver of arrows. Shoulders slumped and head low, Haegr marches off towards the little clearing. You poke your head out of the coach window to watch him. Down below, he draws and fires, solidly striking a tree. Rather than retrieving the shot, he draws and fires again, striking another tree near the first. Haegr continues this trend until his shots are spend, gathering them up and firing again.
What do you do?
A) Fall asleep, you're about to unwillingly pass out already.
B) Press the issue, somethings wrong with the smelly giant.
C) Get out your bow and practice alongside him.
A time to keep silence....
She needs sleep
Your urge to sleep is overcome by your desire to see Haegr's burden lifted. Climbing numbly from the coach you push yourself towards you package of things among which is your beautiful bow and array of arrows. It takes a great effort (and no small assistance from leaning against the coach) to string the bow. Strapping the quiver about your waist, you march doggedly down to the copse of trees.
Haegr doesn't respond as you take up a position beside him and relatively soon you are drawing and firing at a quarter the rate of your burly companion. The motion is cathartic. Despite your drowsy haze, you strike what you're aiming for two times out of three, give or take. "I've never seen so many people die." Haegr says. You don't reply. "I've killed game and livestock. I've killed bandits in a proper battle. But I've never seen so many I'm working to save die."
You can begin to see whats been bothering him.
"I mixed all the poultices right, I think, and I know I gathered the proper herbs because the jars were labeled. But they died anyways. Fifteen people Fox, fifteen people died; three of them while my hands were on them." He shudders and his next shot flies wild, disappearing through the underbrush. You just nod slowly. "And I don't think Ol' Jackney is going to make it."
Your fatigue induced stupor can't completely block the upwelling of emotions as you gag and stifle a sob at the same time.
"He's already old and he's been out like a light for so long and I didn't know what to do. Jorn did what he could, which I think was plenty, but I just have a sinking feeling. Like something bad is going to come out of everything and there's nothing I can do about it. It's a helplessness Fox. I'm helpless.
You find it hard to imagine the majestic Haegr being helpless. His bulky frame belying tiers of youthful muscle, his pack full of pain-killing plants and salves, and the twang with which his shots fly true. If Haegr is helpless, what's that mean for you?
He cuts off abruptly as he goes to retrieve his arrows. You follow dutifully behind him, fifteen or so shafts rattling in your quiver yet. No more talking as he pulls the buried bolts from the trees, usually doing the same for you as your sleep deprived arms refuse to do the deed themselves.
You and Haegr find yourselves walking deep into the copse of trees in search of his missing arrow. You suggest leaving it, but Haegr insists. "Could have hit something." he says as though it ought to answer any questions you have.
Naturally, it doesn't.
'What's wrong with Ol' Jackney?' for example, or 'Why don't you think he'll make it?', and 'How can you be sure?', even a hostile 'What do you know, you're not a physician!'. You trudge irately after him, dimly aware that you're not angry with him but freely directing it in his direction anyway. The whole time you never notice that the underbrush makes room for your footfalls until you stumble and are caught by a low lying branch (which you don't believe to have been their earlier). You gather your feet, shuffling after Haegr who seems oblivious to your bumbling. A gentle creaking confirms that the branch has moved back to where it was.
You and Haegr find the arrow buried in the bulk of a moss covered tree. Haegr retrieves it easily and turns to leave. You, on the other hand, pass right on out.
And wake up in the same place, Haegrless.
What do you do?
A) Screw it, nothing. Take a nap already.
B) Search for Haegr, call out his name.
C) Examine your surroundings, figure out what happened.
B. (If we're shapechanged somehow, it's not going to sound human.)
You put your feet beneath you, much less tired than before, and soak in your surroundings. The copse of trees is somewhat darker than you remember; though that could be the sun going down. That doesn't seem adequate though, the trees themselves and your surroundings seem darker on a much more emotional level. Haegr is nowhere to be seen. You regret that of all his skills you never asked him to teach you tracking; that'd be much more useful than archery at the moment. You look about for anything obvious, footsteps maybe, or bits of cloth, perhaps even his malodourus aroma but find nothing to show where he might have gone.
Unless...
You look up, willing your vision to penetrate the tangle of branches that fill the forest. Sadly no, Haegr is not there (though you are somewhat relieved, for what would he be doing in the branches but hanging). You approach the spot where Heagr's arrow pierced the tree. Something stiff and silent slaps against your thigh. You leap, stifling a scream that comes out as a strangled eep, and land. The thing immediately slaps at your thigh again and a hollow rattle sound reachs your ears. Terrified of snakes you look down.
At your quiver.
Ah yes, right. One mystery solved, one more to go. Searching about you find your bow where you had fallen. Comforted by it's weight (despite your absolute lack of skill) you return to the great mossy tree. It seems to be the darkest of all the tiny forest, laced more heavily with moss than you recall. And the moss, too, is different. No longer a soft lacy green but darker and heavier; so dark the green looks black. A sensation of dread seeps in through your feet and into your bones.
Resisting the urge to leave, you reach out and touch the tree. It's bark is moist and scaled, flaking freely into your hands and leaving a sticky grime upon your fingers. The sap itself is dark, not so much red as blood but perhaps more in the manner of a scab. "A light would be nice," you suggest to no one and recieve the expected reply. If nothing else the dell smells nice, like moss after rain.
"Haegr?" you ask confidently just below a yell, "Are you out there?"
Nothing.
Vexed, you move from tree to tree, examining them. They all have the dark flakey bark with sticky sap (though why stick sap would surprise you is beyond your imagination) that gums up your fingertips. "Damn," you snatch up a few fallens leaves and try to run your hand clean, "come off."
Then a sound. Soft, nearly inaudible, but a sound none-the-less. It's somewhere to your left, likely some distance away. "Haegr?" you venture, far less confident than before. You reach down a draw a thread of your belly fire; doing nothing with it but letting it's presence comfort you. Tingles run up and down your skin in response to the upwelling warmth. Immediately the sound becomes clearer as your senses sharpen (Were you expecting that? You don't think so).
It's very definately the soft patter of footfalls, small footfalls no doubt. Still, you smell nothing other than moss and trees and see nothing odd about you. An inexplicable feeling directs you farther left than you'd been looking and behind a scrubby tree. Bow in hand (you forget to draw an arrows) you stalk closer to the tree. No sound greets your footfalls, though the feeling becomes firm and direct.
Softly, very softly, you hear the surprised inhalation you know as gasping. You don't quite know why you thought of it that way, rather than simply gasping. A mystery to file away for later. "Hello, is someone there?" you know full well the answer is yes and yet, as you round the tree, you find nothing.
Perplexed you circle the tree twice more, sniffing and listening keenly, for any sort of sound and still nothing. Haegr certainly can't be that good. Wind blows through the small copse and the trees about you creek and groan. You take shelter from the wind behind this little tree, keeping a wary eye out for movement as the leafy branches wave lazily.
A stifled sobbing, not so different from your outrageous squeek earlier, touches on your ear and you turn around. The tree is moving, just as all the others are, but not the same. It shakes instead of waves and it's branches resist the wind.
You do not recognize this tree, in the gardening sense. A small voice in the back of your mind chides you for not having realized this sooner. The bark is smooth, like beech, bur umblemeshed by knots or wear. It shudders softly and you curse. Surely you've just come face to face with some ancient monster, hidden for generations in this copse of trees.
Of course, none of the monsters you've heard legends of cry like sissies.
"Ho there!" You gather up a stern voice, "What are you?" The last, meant to be equally stern, is not without a weave of wonder. No response, but the muffled sobbing becomes less controlled. "Tree, if you are a tree, are you..." what's the word, "crying?"
It turns on you, giving you time to appreciate that the tree still towers over you, and creeks softly refusing to speak (if it can). You address it again, kindness tearing words from your lips before you think, "Why are you crying?" Surely, you mock yourself, you're about to get eaten by a tree and you're bothering to ask why it's upset. Perhaps you are not to it's taste? You shush the little voice inside your head.
"It shot me."
Well double damn and hell fire. The tree can speak. "Who shot you?"
"It, with the bent dead-wood. As that one." You are numbly aware that a tiny branch has tapped the tip of your bow. "The steel pierced my bark and made me seep." You are about to speak when it interupts you, "please to do not shot me with your dead-wood and steel." The weeping redoubles.
"It, as in Haegr?" you recall Haegr's shot piercing the great mossy tree. "But Haegr shot that tree?" The little voice in your head applauds you for not running like your feet are on fire.
The tree shakes and a person, with barken skin and leafy hair, disjoins itself from the little tree. Her (for its curves are not disimilar to your own) face would be beautiful if it were not twisted in pain. Sap bubbles up from her stomach, where you expected to see a belly button, and runs down her thigh. "It shot my body, so I hid here when you arrived, for fear of your dead-wood and steel." She fixates on your bow with soft but empty eyes.
What do you do?
A) Hide the bow and try to comfort the 'seeping' monster.
B) Question it further as to what it means.
C) Press it for the whereabouts of Haegr, threaten if need be.
D) Run like your feet are on fire. A tree just talked to you.
-Sarena
No pressure, just take your time.If it helps, we could cheat and give the answer you're most inspired to write about
I'd be interested to know what I'm most inspired to write about.
I would be thrilled if you read my latest one on the last page and told me what you think.
You settle yourself. "I'm sorry he shot you, but I know he didn't mean to. We were a good distance away and he missed his target." There, situation explained. "Did you see where he went?"
The monster takes some relief in this, though perhaps you don't really want it to settle down. After all, if it's too sad it can't eat you, "It was not trying to kill me?" She shudders and her leafy hair rustles and stares intently at you. Something about those pupil-less eyes can be unnerving. "Are you here to finish the job."
That's a turn for the worse. "No!" you shout, though perhaps you meant just to firmly rebut the idea. "I passed out, that's all." The monster is quite a bit larger than you realized. Hunching over and sobbing has a diminishing effect. "When I awoke he wasn't here anymore. That's what I was asking about, did you see him go?"
She stares at you, her eyes slowly becoming more unnerving by the minute. You look away. "It is still over there, with your body." Tension washes slowly away from it's posture and voice, "Did it try to kill you too? It is hovering and unsure."
"Try to kill me? No, Gods no. Well, not in the normal sense. He did keep me up dancing, and eating, and shooting," you wince slightly at the last bit, so does the monster, "all night without sleep but-" mistress of observation you interrupt yourself, "-'with my body'?" The tree creature nods solemnly. Oh hell. He did, he killed you with fatigue and now your spirit is trapped with an injured and slightly twitchy tree monster. You'll kill him back as soon as you get the chance.
Your face must have betrayed your emotions, because the monster asks you "Should I kill it?" with a little too much fervor.
You consider it.
"No." you sigh a little, "Am I dead?"
"Are you?" It asks quite unhelpfully.
"I don't know, I've never been dead before." The tree woman shrugs in agreement and sits down.
"What is your name?" Pardon? Just have a little chat while figuring out if your dead? Not quite what you'd had in mind. On the other hand monsters are fickle creatures (so you've heard).
"People call me Fox," you've no intention of giving a tree monster your real name, "I suppose you can too."
The tree creaks and rustles and groans a multitude of sounds and ends the noise with, "is my name." Nice, unpronounceable forest noise, perfect.
"Can I call you Moss? I don't think I can pronounce it." Have you lost your mind? You must have, you're not sure whether you're dead or alive and you're exchanging contact information with a sentient tree-woman that was happy to kill Haegr (not that you're sure you'd object) just a moment ago. She nods.
The moment becomes awkward (though perhaps only for you, the tree-woman seems to be enjoying it) and silent. You reach down, experimentally, and tug at the fires of your belly. They're there sure enough. Moss picks up her head, "Are you doing that Fox?" Uh-oh, "I feel tingly."
"Um," you eloquently respond, "maybe." You tug at the fire again, just to see, and Moss reacts.
"It is you, isn't it. You're making root magic." The tree creature gets to her feat, which you wish didn't make her so large, and walks over to you. "Will you root magic my sap?" You peer at her face, but follow her look down to the weeping sap.
Why not? It couldn't hurt (well, it could, but you don't think it would) and it might make you a friend (that maybe you'll be trapped forever with, who knows) of Moss. You nod gently and reach down into your belly fire. You aren't entirely sure how to go about this, after all you could sew Haegr a blanket from two feet away, but this is not a blanket. You reach out and hesitantly put a hand over the wound. Moss rustles her leaves as you thread a line of fire into the punctured bark.
It works, apparently, for the wound is gone. Moss appears pleased as punch at this occurrence, eyes bright and leaves merry (you've never seen merry leaf-hair before, it's quite a sight).
"Thank you Fox." the tree-woman who sits down beside you positively a glow. Maybe you used a bit much? Her leaves are greener and her bark brighter and, and, she's not there anymore. You hear a rustling in the tree behind you and a quiet whispering that might be more 'thank yous' but frankly, could just be wind rustling leaves. An smell, not entirely unpleasant yet somewhat harsh on your senses swirls up around you.
"Damn it all Fox, I said wake up." Says Moss in a man's voice. She cradles your head in large sweaty palms- oh.
Haegr.
Haegr!
"Damn it all me you say!" you yell, "I've been up all night dancing and eating and growing stupid plants for you you ignorant, stupid" come on think of an insult, "ignorant oaf! If you'd have just told me what was bothering you I'd be asleep in the coach right now!"
A sigh rebounds from Haegr's lips and a feminine creak echos out of the mossy old tree (can creaking be feminine?). There's a hollow thump as something bounces off Haegr's back and he howls in pain. "What the hell was that."
A large uneven lump of crystal clear amber rolls down and into the palm of your hand. A bit of moss is trapped inside. You and Haegr exchange crude names. Well, you offer Haegr a series of crude names while he apologizes profusely for your collapse. Occasionally, a nearby tree drops an acorn on the man's head with incredible accuracy, often punctuating your various curses. At some point, which you did not notice, the two of you exit the copse of trees and arrive at the coach.
What do you do?
A) Go to sleep mad, you're tired.
B) Apologize for the name calling and go to sleep.
C) Tell Haegr about Moss and your 'out of body' experience.
-Sarena
), we can metagame a little, and I don't think that clamming up and stewing about it over night would contribute to the story. On the other hand, C, while contibruting more to the story, seems to be least in-character. B, while not quite in-character, does contribute to the story more, and seems to be passable for true "roleplaying". Besides, it isn't Haegr's fault and he deserves a bit of a break considering what he's going through right now. I choose B.Haegr holds the door open for you as you slip up into the welcoming seats of the carriage. Haegr deftly climbs in behind you. As you settle in to what certainly isn't going to be the worst night sleep you've ever had the frustrations of the day, and your frustrations with Haegr, melt into the well padded bench and out of you. "Haegr? Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was frustrated and tired and angry, but that's not really your fault," the apology tastes sweet on your lips, or perhaps you're already starting to dream because words do not have tastes, "do you forgive me?"
Haegr chuckles softly, sounding almost as old as he looks, "Of course, I was scared half to death when you collapsed in that wood. Thought you might have died."
You push his shoulder weakly with the back of your hand, "Give it a rest, I'm never going to die." You scooch your way into the corner of the coach, which is for some reason ridiculously comfortable right now. "Besides, I made all those choices to stay up with you."
"Fox?" Haegr asks.
"Yes Haegr?"
"Thank you." He says, "For making all those choices to stay up with me."
"Oh you're welcome." You bat a paw, correction - hand, at him playfully, "I'll always have time for you."
He grunts, your eyes are already closed but you'd guess he's smiling. "Thanks Fox."
"And Haegr," he murmurs something of an answer, "when you're ready to talk about it, I'll have time for you."
"Of course Fox. Get some sleep." He answers. You snore gently in response. If he mentions it later you'll just accuse him of lying. You couldn't possibly snore.
***
Bull is up and about, for twice in his life (at least so far as you know) eyeball deep in wildflowers and munching away happily. Your dell is pretty much as you left it, Bull (awake, it's a miracle!), your spring, your trees, your wildflowers. Much to your surprise, the entrance to the hedge maze is still there!
Where do you go?
A) Spring
B) Wildflowers
C) Bull
D) Trees
E) Hedge Maze, turn left at the T.
F) Hedge Maze, turn right at the T.
-Sarena
None of these flowers are familiar per sey. They all bear some resemblence to flowers you've seen and known, but each has it's own remarkably unique differences. One flower, which happens to be in your fingers and nearly up your nose, looks quite like a thistle save that it smells of honey and has bright orange tufts. Another one, which until recently was not in your fingers and nearly up your nose, is a catclaw briar (the sort that does not grow in forested dells ) who's head has pawprint markings.
Moving to hands and knees you take in the myriad of flowers. Its quiet peaceful really. Sifting through your wild garden that has no need of insects (hooray dreams!) you inspect certain roots and tubers whose stems you mostly recognize. A wild potatoe has a sugary smell when scratched and an onion some distance away is striped with blue and yellow.
What a dell. Snuffling alerts you to a bovine presence to your left. Bull stands there, staring longingly at the onion in your hand. "Why not," you laugh, tossing the onion towards him, "have at it." The onion bounces off his nose though this seems to cause him no terrible dilemma. He follows the rolling root for a few steps until it stops, gently reaching out and audibly crunching the onion between his teeth.
Well, that's an idea.
You stretch out your limbs, promptly shrinking into the compact form of a fox. Your nose, now far keener, bobs and weaves as you sniff about the wild flowers. Many are sweet, a few nutty and even fewer smell rather bland. One in particular makes you a little dizzy and you back away, taking the time to turn into a bull and inhaling it again. No reaction this time, though it in turn smells very warm and grassy.
What a joy.
You romp around a bit, dashing through the flowers bellowing happily. Bull seems to be, through the wonderous translation of your bovine ears, chuckling. To hell with him, you turn about and charge through the field again, bellowing joyously. Just to shove it in his face you take a great bound as a bull...
...and land as a fox! Now swift and bushy you sprint circles around the dell, tongue lolling. Bull settles down, laying on his belly in the midst of the field content to chew on that potatoe you dug up earlier. In a fit of mirth, you bound through the field and leap over his bulky form. This does not impress him, nor divert his attentions from the potatoe. Enjoying this new hobby, you double back and clear him a few more times much to his non-interest. You wonder if perhaps he is ignoring you on purpose.
You collapse, tired and happy, rolling around on your back and popping out short barks and purring (you're purring, oh that's fun!). Time passes and you slowly fall asleep into a sort of dreamlessness.
Oh, so that's what happens.
***
Morning comes rather late for you. First eye is already floating in the sky as you rouse from your slumber. Haegr and Alain are both up, based on their absence from the coach (and it's not because you snore, those are lies). You stretch, tongue lolling happily before you realize people don't do that sort of thing and stop.
You've got a morning ahead of you, probably most of the day unless Jackney wakes up.
What do you do?
Yeah, I think people are still dieing in the physician's tent. Healing herbs are still needed I think. She also needs to do more for Ol' Jackney. The poor dudes been in a coma for days and if anything can be done about it, she should do it.
-Sarena
Run around as a fox for a while before anything else (gotta exercise and stuff.) Then after that, get on Haegr's good graces by making some herbs for him and the doctor to use, and check in on Ol'Jackney once in a while. Afterwards, we should probably make our way back to the stables as the stable boy (and possibly a few others) might be wondering why the bull is not back in the stall yet.
You angle your way out of the coach, noting that you're still feeling rather stiff. Confident that this will wear off over the course of the day you make your way towards the physician's tent. There seem to be fewer people around, or perhaps fewer people making trades or showing off horses. You sigh, the tradesmeet will probably end by tomorrow, leaving only the desperate and the deal-seekers.
And the dead.
That particular thought drags at your heels. You haven't got time to dilly-dally, you remind yourself, there are people that likely need poultices made from herbs which you can provide. A determined look etched on your face you march up to the physician's tent and immediately reel from the scent of rot and infection. You'd forgotten how bad it was, especially compared to the flowers of your dreams. The first wave of nausea rolls over you, followed immediately by the urge to wretch and back away.
Stench be damned, you push on. Behind the flap of tent is the physician, bag-eyed and slow moving amongst the survivoring patients. A warmth seeps into your bones when you notice at least five people are doing far better than the night before, by the smell of them. Of course, there are empty beds (technically, full beds whose inhabitants have been replaced by those that were previously on the floor) but you're not sure if they left on their feet or not. "Haegr," You ask, watching the burly man turn, "Did you need any more plants from the coach?"
"What've you got?" The physician snaps.
"Um, I think there's some blissweed and, um, well I don't know them that well but I'm sure Haegr could identify them for me."
"Bring it." He simultaniously commands and dismisses you.
Haegr guides you out of the tent and away from the physician's ranting. "He's been at it all night. I think he dozed off around third moon while mixing a poultice." You look at him quizically, "The mortar's cracked and theres a smelly garlic paste on the ground." The further you get Haegr from the tent the less stooped and bedraggled he becomes. "That's a lot of people dying Fox."
You nod, fishing for words and catching none.
"There isn't much we can do for them at the moment. Bleeding's been stopped, infection's being fought. If you're feeling like an angel you could grow that blissweed, but it won't save any lives in the end." Why not, its not like it'll hurt you to grow a few plants.
"Sure thing, are you feeling better?" Haegr stares at nothing for a while.
"Not really." He shrugs. Irritation flickers and dies in your chest.
You comfort him with a brilliant "Ok."
Down by the field you pick up a bit of your own maneur and sprinkle the few blissweed tufts on it. "Would you fetch some water Haegr? It grows a little faster that way." He leaves you kneeling in cow dung and hurries off with the bucket. Soon as he's out of sight you drop your composure and spend a some energy smacking the ground with bunched fists and whispering curse words. Tears stop just short of your eyes and you take in a few deep breaths.
Faking a nice calm, you thrust your fingers into the dung and pull out a stream of bellyfire. It just doesn't seem fair, the more you think about it, that you could grow every curative plant in the world but it won't save one of your herd. 'Herd?' comes the unbidden thought. It's not like you knew any of them. They never shared a meal or a room or a street with you (your nagging voice points out that some of them may have ridden you, which is a fairly intimate event). A stray tear escapes your grip and disappears in a now slightly darker bit of dung.
When it came to it though, they did line up right behind you and go at it. By all rights you did a little coercing; in terms of that bellowing. Nevertheless, you'd have been an easy target without a few dozen traders at your heels and that seems to be what counts. Perhaps this depression is magnified by Bull's feelings. You've no idea what the dream-squatting bovine thinks about the subject but you suspect he has relatively strong feelings. Of course it just so happens that goring and trampling is of no use here and you're not about to give into the urge to lick the injured.
Footsteps signal Haegr's return and your banishment of such thoughts. A little water goes a long way with cow dung and the blissweed sprouts quickly. Probably why they call it a weed really. It is a little off though, now that you mention it. Blissweed has a bright blue tuft and slightly woody stem; yet this plant's tuft is shot through with white and it's stem is rigid but barkless. "Um, Haegr?" you ask as you inspect the rest of the plants, all of which share this oddity.
"Don't know Fox, maybe they weren't blissweed tufts after all. Jorm is organized but he's not a gardener. Might have been sold the wrong thing." Then again, you've seen orange thistle that smelled like honey and catclaw briar that had pawprints. Which brings you to a new level of disturbing ideas.
What if it's not medicinal anymore?
What do you do?
A) Use it anyway, you can't have changed it that much.
B) Refuse to use it, you don't want to kill people.
C) Ask the physician. He may ask questions, but surely you could lie to a drop-dead-tired old man.
Haegr grimaces as he follows you back to the tent, "I don't like it Fox. There are plenty of plants that looks just like one another and have wildly different effects."
You admit, you do know a lot of plants that look a like, "But still, Jorm ought to know if it's good for medicine, right?"
"Jorm isn't all there right now Fox, he's been up for two days. I don't know that he's got it all together right now."
You shrug, "What's the worst that could..." there's no way your finishing that thought, let alone that sentence. "I'm putting it up to him, he's the physician, he can make the decision."
"I'm just saying, I don't like it." He reaches out and snags you by the arm, whirling you about. You'd slap him if you weren't carrying possibley life-saving possibly poisonous flowers. "At least lets get the manure off your hands." He takes the strange flowers from your fingers and begins rubbing vigorously at your fingertips.
Oh, hadn't thought of that.
You use the side of your leg to rub clean the hand not held by Haegr. It mostly comes off, though not entirely. Heagr spits on your hand and rubs some more. "Ew, Haegr!" He shrugs and continues, getting your fingers quite impressively clean.
"You don't want to put a bunch of manure around sick folk. Can't risk it getting in their injuries." You acceed the point, but insisit on spitting on your own hand this time.
"It's still disgusting."
Hands clean you resume your march to the physician's tent. Jorm is, strangely, standing outside in the sun. "Assistant? Where were you, I need you to go bandage a man's arm, he's in the back." Wordlessly Haegr slips under the tent flap and presumably goes about his duties. "What is it ma'am?" His eyes flutter dangerously close to closing.
"I have what I think is blissweed, but I'm not sure. It's supposed to just be blue, isn't it? And bark, right, there should be a little bark." Jorm plucks one of the flowers from your hand, blinking excessively as he aclimatizes to the daylight.
"Mmm..." he offers helpfully. "It certainly looks like blissweed, though the white shoots and lack of bark is fairly unusual." He sighs, "I'm not a gardener, I don't know. Where did you pick this?"
Oh, oh hell. "Ummm..." you helpfully reply. "I think I picked them in a forest dell a day or so ago." Please let it go.
"West or east of here?" Damn.
"I don't think I've been east of here before." He nods thoughfully. You didn't even have to lie for that. A sense of calm settles in you, this isn't so hard as perhaps you'd imagined it. He plucks a bit of tuft, mashes it between his fingers, and places it on his tongue. Waiting (and staring at his extended tongue) you try to look in a politely different direction but a doctor standing about with blue and white tufts on his tongue, which may or may not be pointing at you, is a hard thing to ignore. "Umm..." you suggest.
"Wehh, I gad feh mah tog. Muff be bwiffweed." he concludes while you interpret. As gentle as one can expect from a sleep deprived physician, he takes the bundle of flowers from your hands and ducks back into the tent without another word.
He could say thank you. Not much to do now really. You could walk about a bit or just try to catch up on some sleep. And who knows, maybe if you pray really really hard Ol' Jackney will wake up. On the other hand, you should probably buy some horses at some point even though you don't know the first thing about them (that can't be learned first hand).
What do you do with your spare time?
And to answer your question (I am speaking only for myself), No. I just have been finding it difficult to get on-line time.
For the horses, we could always find Alain to help with that. However, buying the horses would be a bit pointless right now since Ol'Jackney's fate is yet to be determined. Perhaps its time for her to truly extend her abilities and try to do something for Ol'Jackney.
You consider the problem before you and, while horses are important, Ol' Jackney could manage it if you can wake him up. You can grow plants from lond dead bits of trimmings, no reason it shouldn't work on a body right? It takes some mustering of courage but you are determined to see him awake.
The only question is, how do you get to him. Certainly the physician won't have and truck with you standing about in his tent shamaning up the injured. It's a tricky question, which must be answered rather quickly, seeing as how you're standing infront of the tent looking a bit awkward. It's a puzzling question. You might manage to slip in as some small mammal, but you're pretty sure they'd notice a fox and you're not entirely sure what kind of other small animals you can turn into. Wouldn't do any good to turn into a mouse and get eaten by a wandering cat or brained by an irate physician.
You turn around and march back to your coach. Got to be some way of going about it. You fiddle with your hands, tossing the amber teardrop between them, as you think. "Maybe he'd let me take Ol' Jackney back to the coach?" you query yourself, dismissing the idea. The physician as been pushing so long that he seems a bit obsessed with all of his patients. Demanding might work or it might just build bad will.
Damnity damn damn.
You flop down in the coach and stare at the padded roof for a while. You're confident a decent amount of time has passed, but still nothing comes to you. Frustration begins to seep in as each idea is farther fetched than the last. You stop yourself at 'turning into a massive roc and plucking Ol' Jackney away'. It's impractical. Sleep steals over you slowly in conjunction with your tears.
No dreams come. You awaken again a few moments later, dazed by your short rest. The amber tear rolls off your fingertips and thumps down on your toes (which now sting something wicked). "Oh?" you ask the empty air, "There's a thought." You push out of the coach and tromp down the now familiar path to the copse of trees. You aren't sure that taking a nap there will have you walking about strangely, but it's worth a go.
The woods become darker and darker still, despite the relative minuteness of the grove, until you reach the no-longer-injured tree. A shiver steals over you and doubt seeps into your thoughts. "Maybe it's not a good idea." You suggest, but there's no one to argue with.
Sighing you clutch the amber teardrop and lay against the tree. Sleep is surprisingly elusive here, especially with you perking up at the rustle of leaves or swish of air. There is a maliciousness to the place despite how certain you are of your safety. For comfort's sake you turn into a bull (it still hurts, a lot) and hunker up against the gnarly wood.
Size counts for a lot. Apparently it makes it easier to doze off as well. Maybe this is why Bull is always sleeping.
***
You stand up on two legs and shake your horned head; realizing you haven't got any horns and ought to knock it off. The disconnect is strange. If you concentrate very very hard you begin to notice the outline of a large bull laying against the tree, slipping away whenever you focus in on it.
That's not entirely relevant at the moment, well, it is, but not to your task at hand. You peer about for any sign of the tree-monster but she appears to be either away or ignoring you. Wind-swift feet carry you out of the copse and up the little path towards the physician's tent. Things look very different now. Slow collisions of varied colors sink into the surrounding area like dye, also shot through with streaks of gold.
That is, everywhere but the physician's tent which is black as pitch damn frightening. Occasionally points of brilliant white light penetrate the roiling, inky undertone and vanish just as quickly. Your resolve falters, perhaps there's a better way?
What do you do?
A) Damn the creepy colors, full speed ahead.
B) Regroup and replan.
)Fear gnaws at your gut.
Panic claws up your spine.
Doubt tugs at your chest.
Resolute, you take a single step through the squirming arch and into the tent. Waves of nausea roll over you and your knees fail you. You stumble past the entrance of murk to find a hazy fog inside, perforated by the ghostly shades of white passing hither and tither. This was not expected. Your body rocks with dry heaves. The realization some of the slithering ick still clings to your neck and shoulders strikes you.
Brusk and only slightly more panicky than a falling chicken, you batter away at the oily strands and still they cling like cobwebs. The viscous haze draws itself into your lungs, forcing you to take gasping wheezy breathes. "Damnit!" is the only coherent phrase that crosses your lips. More dry heaving. The arms and legs you're propped up on give way and you collapse to your side, gasping for clean air.
One of the ghostly shapes steps through you and everything stops. No oily strands restrain you, no murky haze chokes you, your lungs stop burning. A brief moment of weightlessness as the ghostly shade passes through you and then, as it moves on, normality. Perhaps less normal normality, more like walking in smoke.
Putting hands and knees beneath you you crawl, not trusting your feet alone, towards where Ol' Jackney should be-
-and find nothing.
You peer about you, making out the ghostly shapes of what should be the injured laying in their beds. Some mostly solid, some mostly ethereal, but in every bed there is some shape; even a few laid out upon the floor. You check your surroundings, sure of yourself. Beds over there, a desk over there, two ghostly figures (Haegr and Jorm?) moving swiftly about. Yes, you're sure of it. Ol' Jackney is here.
Or his body is anyway.
What do you do?
A) Get out of there. It's dangerous and you don't know if the haze will hold off forever.
B) Try something. You aren't sure what, but there must be something you can do.
C) Try anything. Even if it's stupid and dangerous and wouldn't work; you've got to try.
You kneel down next to his bed and touch where Ol' Jackney ought to be. Haegr (or Jorm) passes through you again, bringing on that sensation of weightlessness that fades as he moves on. Your wave your hands about, hoping to note some difference where Ol' Jackney's body is; a warmth perhaps, or a coolness. You find nothing.
Far from surrender you reach down and touch your belly fire. Your senses become keener (this room smells like surrender) instantly, but fail to detect any sign of Ol' Jackney. Could Haegr have moved him to a bed in the brief time you were gone? It's not likely, but how would you know. You can't even distinguish a man you grew up with from a cranky surgeon you met yesterday. Well you have an idea, but you're certainly not going to try and guess which one Ol' Jackney is, it could easily do more harm than good.
You spit and curse under your breath (spitting under your breath proves to be difficult, but possible) and stamp your feet a few times for good measure before returning to the problem at hand. You tug harder on your belly fire, pulling it up into you, filling your limbs with a heady rush of power. Despite the further sharpening of your senses (one light smells quite a bit like Haegr) you do not sense Jackney before you.
Praying it won't be a poor decision, you lay your hands over where he ought to be and push the fire out slowly. It slips out from your fingertips and begins to move on its own, slowly spreading to your left and right, and a bit before you as well. You reign the heat in slightly, slowing the spread to a trickle and watch it with sharp eyes. The outline of a vaguely human form appears before you, rimmed in a dying flame, that may or may not be Ol' Jackney.
"Dying's bad fer bus-i-ness." you whisper because it seems like just the sort of thing he'd say. You let go of your belly fire, allowing it to recede. Immediately the firey body before you disappears. "Damnit!" your exclamation fails to fully encompass your surprise. You draw on the fire again, pushing it out, perhaps a little too quickly, and filling the form with a slightly more furious fire very quickly. You pull back on the heat till Ol' Jackney is outlined in the radiating glow of embers.
"What am I going to do with you?" You ponder aloud to him, maintaining a tight leash on your trickle of heat.
The sudden sensation of weightlessness fills you and disappears twice while you ponder. It's already starting to lose some of it's charm. "Damint Jorm, stop pacing." You scan the coachman's body for signs of life, finding none. This is nothing like the sewing you did with vines, or the growing of seeds. Ol' Jackney is ringed in your belly fire, but doesn't soak it up or even let it in. "What is wrong with people, won't let themselves get healed." Weightlessness assails you and fails to budge. You look around, temporarily forgetting your fire.
Ol' Jackney flares up and the weightlessness evaporates. Both ghostly white forms leap back from you. Scratch that, they can't see you. Both ghostly white forms leap back from Ol' Jackney's body and one sprints from the death-soaked tent. Haegr, you'd guess, remains. The white form kneels down through you (which starts to feel really uncomfortable, like you're being pushed from all sides) and hovers over the flaming Ol' Jackney.
Flaming Ol' Jackney, right! You pull back on the bellyfire, leaving a low ember outline of the faithful coachman in it's place. Ignoring the strange pushing sensation, you have at Ol' Jackney again.
You imagine Ol' Jackney: his foul teeth, wrinkled leather skin, droopy left ear, overlarge knuckles and underfed waist. You ring that image with your fire and hold it in your head. "Bad fer bus-i-ness," it repeats over and over, smelling a lot like horses in all their various states. You imagine the fire slipping through his skin and into his chest. By force of will the picture in your head begins breathing and moving slightly.
The pressure surrounding you is quickly relieved and replaced with a much weaker pressure. A muddled buzzing comes from somewhere but you refuse to let go of the image of Jackney. Below you the ember outline of Ol' Jackney moves gently. His chest rises and falls slowly. You can't hear him, but the way his mouth is moving you know what he's saying.
"Bad fer bus-i-ness."
Exultant, you pull your fire slowly back from the body, until you can't see anything but a soft ghostly glow all around you. You slip past them, noting that the oily haze and inky webs have burst into flame.
You flee down the hill towards your body, moving so quickly it feels like flying. There, in the grove, you find the great slumbering bull. Coincidentally, a squirrel is standing on top of you munching an acorn. "Munch away!" you yell gleefully.
With a bounding leap you're inside your body, struggling to get it moving. You tug and twist, but can't quite move. Your fingers are cramped and your nose too far away. Oh, right, one half of you is the wrong shape. Horns grow from your head and hooves from your limbs. As you become a single creature again you note that the forest's sky is bright with ambers and golds and you could swear the oak trink winked at you.
Then it fades. Tree's are trees, the sky sits about midday, and everything smells pretty much as it ought to smell. Joy buffers you from the pain of change and even blunts some of the sudden and extreme weariness that drags on you.
What do you do?
A) Go see Jackney immediately, you've missed him so much and there's so much to do.
B) Don't go. Arriving immediately after his miraculous recovery might make people suspicious.
A.
Still laying next to the tree to you focus your mind on your human bo- oh, you've already changed. Your enthusiasm for your stunning success with Jackney has buffeted you from the worst of the snap change. You gather your feet beneath you and try to proceed calmly out of the forest. Resisting the urge to sprint up to the tent is obscenely difficult. But you resist...
...for about six seconds.
Breaking into a full sprint you dash out of the little dell, tripping only once in your excitement, over a protruding root. Never mind the dirt on your elbows and knees, you barrel on out of the forested area and up the short hill to your coach. There you lay a hand on the side of the wooden carriage and breath for a few seconds. Running has been awfully difficult, and you shouldn't be this tired.
Looking down (for you are leaning the other hand against your knees) you realize that your feet are cloven hooves. "That," panting, "won't," wheezing, "do!" Running on hooves is hard when you've only got two legs and it explains why you couldn't feel the grass beneath your feet. A hard moment of concentration, slightly harder than your previous alterations, and you've got feet again (with ten toes no less). Unwilling to risk some other deformity, you carefully check yourself over for other bullish shapes. Your face is the right shape, no horns, your skin is milky smooth rather than a thick hide. You snatch at your butt, only to find a tail. "Oh!" You tug it to be sure. It's your.
Unforming the tail takes more effort than your feet, and even stings a little. You run your hands all over and visually inspect everything you can see. Finding no more bovine features you head off again, much calmed by the act of self-inspection, to the physician's tent. You pass a few people and hear buzzing whispers flying about. 'Angel' and 'fire' are repeated frequently in conjunction with the name different gods( depending on who is telling the story).
"No." you chuckle to yourself. Surely they couldn't see you, right? You stop for a moment to think, could they? How well could they have seen you? Certainly not that well. Haegr didn't even notice you, of course you were playing hide and seek with a tree monster at the time. Correction, the spirit of a tree monster, you think, probably.
Wait, why does that matter? Ol' Jackney is alive, so what if they decide this particular angel happens to look like you, right? Right? You carry on, somewhat hesitantly though. Besides, you think, its not like there would be bad repercussions if they thought I was the angel. Its not like I have to tell them I'm an angel. Despite these thoughts, your conclusion doesn't comfort you much. At the moment, you'd really enjoy some anonymity.
The tent grows within your view, far less threatening and imposing than it looks to your spirit. Although in the corners of your eyes you imagine the writhing tendrils that you think might have tried to kill you. A shiver runs down your spine and your skin crawls with goosebumps. "Be strong," you chide under your breath, "you just performed a damned miracle". You look about to be sure no one heard you, for there are quite a number of people nearby, and duck beneath the flap.
Imaginary spiderweb sensations cling to you but vanish as you quietly chide yourself. "Haegr," you ask when his bulk and smell come into range, "where's Ol' Jackney?" The big man, your childhood friend, turns to you. Mystery etched on his face.
"Fox." He says, pushing through the small crowd of men in unusual robes who block your view of Ol' Jackney, "Excuse me." He says, forcing one of them to move slightly and make room for you. You squeeze between Haegr's arm and the berobed man.
"What's all this, and who are they?" You're pretty sure you know the answer, but what does it hurt to ask?"
"Priests," Haegr says, pointing them out as though he'd been practicing, "Monite, Torite, Sumite, Tyrite, Sardurite, and Frejite. The Wodite is outside, trying to charge admission." You laugh until you realize he isn't joking.
"But Ol' Jackney, they could at least let me talk to him." Haegr gives you a funny look, but sighs.
"Jorm, may I?" The physician appears thoroughly incensed at having his workplace invaded. He looks at Haegr spitefully and nods with satisfaction. Haegr muscles through the religious crowd, "Alright, please. This is Fox, Ol' Jackney's charge, and she'd like to have a moment."
Protests of various shades (violence from the Torite, chiding from the Sardurite) are cut short by Haegr's imperious bellowing. "I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. Just get out and leave us alone for an hour. I'm sure the Gods will forgive you for not badgering a young lady."
Muttering darkly they file out of the room, the Torite going last just to prove he's not scared of Haegr's size. You marvel at their procession. Turning, you kneel down next to Ol' Jackney and open your mouth to speak, stop, and begin again. "Haegr? He's not moving."
Your childhood friend shuffles from foot to foot, "I'm sorry Fox. It was strange. You see, there was this glowing angel and he was on fire. Then he started twitching and finally, it all just vanished and he wasn't breathing anymore. I think, I think Mon sent someone to collect his soul.
The bottom falls out as the world spins briefly. Disoriented, you collapse, sobbing.
***
You wake up in your dell, a much darker, depressing version. Rain falls, bull lays bellowing morosely in the wildflowers (which are all shades of grey or near-black. The tree limbs droop, the spring looks... upset... for a spring, and the path to Flint's hedge maze is filled with twisted dark-leafed hedge.
What do you do?
A) Go find comfort with Bull.
B) See if Flint can comfort you.
C) Comfort yourself, alone.
D) Fight the saddness and refuse to cry.
side note. Jonathon if you made this a full novel, I'd buy it in a heartbeat. Keep up the good work man.
B
Sensations that aren't quite images blow through your mind on a breeze. Cattle, sick or old or injured, rattling out a final breath as they expire. An emptiness as your herd moves on, that sits on your shoulders and pulls at your hooves. The unsettling weakness in your muscles and bones that sets in. Moving helps, the herd follows you onward and away from the ache. But milling about you spot a familiar pattern in a nearby hide, but not quite perfect. A spot or a shade is off. Emptiness settles in.
You pull your mind out of Bull's. What could be tears but are probably rain drops moisten your cheek. "But I helped. I poured my fire into him. I-" Bull bellows gently.
You breathe on a dying young bull, snort and bellow as you flex your great lungs and bellow loudly at the world. Hot sticky breath washes over the young bull, coating them in warmth and power. They still die. The herd stampedes recklessly away, you at their head.
You disconnect again. "I'm sorry." You press yourself further into the massive spirit's side. Comforting and warm, filling your nostrils with an earthy musk. You doze briefly, but are chased back into the dream by awful realities.
Gently you lift yourself out from under Bull's horn. He is asleep again, though restlessly so.
What do you do?
A) Seek out Flint.
B) Wander the hedgemaze.
A
A. Should have done that to begin with.
Leaving the sleeping bull lie, you walk through the morose wildflowers towards the dark and twisted hedge maze. You stop before entering, tugging a prickly leaf from hedge wall. It's a green so dark it seems black with five pointed leaves that could, if you were careless, draw blood. Not a plant you recognize. A small voice in your mind mocks you for even wondering what kind of plant it is when Ol' Jackney is dead. You cry a little.
Tears you would blame on the rain if anyone were near run down your cheeks and off your chin, disappearing in the drizzling rain. Solemnly you process down the halls of hedge, turning right at the T and moving past the illusive entrance to Flint's garden.
Flint doesn't appear to be in, though he may well be wandering elsewhere, probably wondering why it's raining and his hedges are so dark. His statue, for all your gloom, stands just as magnificently as ever. "Maggie did a good job." you say and immediately regret it. Maggie's dead too, she probably bumped into Ol' Jackney. He's telling her how dying 'was bad fer bus-i-ness' and something about horses.
You plop down on his carven marble foot and wait (not crying, really not crying, because... hell, crying). Time passes and Flint doesn't show up. Comforted by your aloneness, you sob a little louder, perhaps even wailing into the storm once or twice. No one can hear you (to which the little voice answers, what does it matter if anyone can hear you).
The clouds show no sign of moving.
Memories (if events so recent could be called memories) move lazily through your mind. Ol' Jackney explaining northern trade. Ol' Jackney half-asleep and furious in his britches. Ol' Jackney instructing you as to when the coach leaves. Ol' Jackney this, Ol' Jackney that. With each memory, you struggle to hold onto his face a moment longer.
Unable to bear it any longer, you look up at Flint's carven face. Serenity is written all over his young features, a serenity you would have trouble imagining on his pruney old face (because you don't remember how he looked when he was trimming the hedge). But maybe when Maggie was around he had that look on his face.
You remember Maggie giving Flint a bite on his but and his face as he flailed about. The scene is so ridiculous you allow yourself a little laugh. Guilt crushes in on you. "Very nice," you berate yourself, "just laugh it up, have a good old time, say, maybe you ought to invite Ol' Jackney to see it. I bet he'd have loved it."
You sigh.
An emptiness wells up inside you (how emptiness actually 'wells up' is beyond you) and fills your senses. You don't even feel the rain (which isn't going anywhere) falling. You don't even hear the snake until it's slithering across your foot, at which point you don't hear it as much as you feel it slithering across your foot with it's icky snake belly.
Your first instinct is to run like hell. Your second instinct is that it's probably Maggie, checking you out. Then again, you didn't see Maggie without Flint and, if Maggie is a part of Flint's dreams...
Who's slithering across your foot?
Who do you think?
A) Maggie, Flint's fallen asleep just now.
B) The serpent, you fainted in mid-day: Flint sleeps at night.
A for the same.
The snake hisses in response. Not much of an answer.
"Mmm..." you question, "are you, err... Maggie?" Seemingly upset, the snake becomes an obviously upset woman.
"Yes, couldn't get a rise out of you. I must be losing my edge. Were the eyes right?" She asks, sitting naked as a jay bird next to you.
You burst into tears at the jovial conversation. It's just too much. Maggie's brow knits and her devil-may-care grin turns into a frown. "Oh honey, you're not that upset are you. It was just a little snake."
"Ol' Jackney's dead." You sputter between sobs (sobs which you were quite set against sobbing). Maggie opens and shuts her mouth a few times, settling on an apology and a big hug. Despite your discomfort with the contact, its hard not to welcome sympathy. You shift between crying and whimpering on her shoulder (and snot that dribbles out of your nose in the process is washed away by the rain). "I just don't understand. I made him breathe again! He was alive and moving and then, nothing!"
Maggie puts on hand on your head and pats you gently. "Go on honey, its alright." Your sobbing is uninterrupted by your shock at her sudden motherly nature. Her hand moves from your head to your upper back, patting you like an infant, "go on girly, go on." She coos softly to you and whispers nonsensical children's rhymes.
None of this has any effect on your sobbing, but it's nice. You'd have liked to have your mother near, a fact that only now slips into your head and, unfortunately, only makes you cry harder. You start blubbering about giving him fire and seeing him move (and briefly about seven stupid priests) while Maggie begins rocking you.
Some time passes in her cradling arms. Your sobbing turns to crying, to leaky eyes, and eventually a heavy silence that suits that pattering of the rain on Flint's statue. Maggie is still patting your back. "I want my mother-" you whisper to Maggie. She coos and rocks you ever so slightly.
Then the words that you held back because, quite frankly, they are very stupid sounding words slip out of you, "-because it's not fair." A sigh escapes Maggie, who holds you just a little tighter.
"I know girly, not fair at all." Warmth surrounds you, like fire that's not your own, and you are glad of it. "Not fair at all."
"Why?" You do not ask so much as demand.
"Because, girly. Because."
"That's not an answer."
"Nope."
"That's not an answer."
"I know." You go to say it again and stop yourself, taking a second to remind yourself that Maggie is actually quite dead and has a very good idea of how not-fair things get. "Not fair at all. So who's Ol' Jackney girly."
"He's the coachman." It sounds stupid the moment it slips your lips.
"Uh-huh."
"He's, he's the coachman taking Haegr and I up north. He's really good at it, and with horses-"
"Horses are good judges of people."
"-and he knows plenty about towns and things. And he always says 'bad fer bus-i-ness'." Maggie rubs your back, "And. And he's friendly. He likes to talk, but he's not much in a fight, but he doesn't need to be." The voice, which heretofore had been silent, respectfully reminds you that he "said", "knew", "was", "wasn't", and "didn't".
"Not a lot of good people are good in a fight."
"And, and he died."
"I caught that part deary. How'd he go?"
"Our wheel broke. And, he was thrown, and, um, I don't know what happened to him. He just didn't wake up."
"Goes that way sometimes."
"I came to him, left my body in the dell, poured all the fire I had into him and he moved! I swear he moved! He was alive, awake, I know it - I saw it." Maggie combats your growing hysteria by strengthening her hold and cooing again. "But, when I got back to my body and the tent he was dead! Not sleeping, not not waking up, dead!"
"And..." Maggie leads for you.
"...what if it was my fault?" Tears again, hot and fresh and stinging worse than before, gush from your eyes. You pull away, or try to, from Maggie's iron hold.
"Shush girly, shush now." Warmth seeps down your spine and settles in your chest. "Shush now deary, let it go." You stop fighting her and collapse in her arms, head on her shoulder, pouring tears and, again, snot onto her skin and hair.
Maggie, saintly in her own way, pretends not to notice. "But-" you're shushed. "What if-" shushed again. You inhale to speak and are shushed again, softly, until you let go and cry.
***
You wake up at Haegr's knees, cramped uncomfortably in the passenger seat of the coach (which Ol' Jackney will never drive again), looking up at your friends gristly face. "Fox?" He reaches out and pushes some hair from your face, peering curiously. "You awake?" You nod tentatively, biting your bottom lip and letting your eyes water. The concern etched into his smooth features is rewritten with sadness, "I know, you shouldn't have had to see that." You sniffle. "Alain is out finding a burial place. I uh, don't know anything about him. The priests, damn their eyes, want to keep him as a relic but Jorn and I weren't having any of it. We're, uh, going to sneak out and bury him somewhere secretly tonight so they can't dig him up. Any longer and the churches get involved..." He opens his hands as if to explain.
Your stomach churns and your fire boils at the thought.
"Do you want to come?" You nod, unwilling to miss a last good bye. "I was thinking we might manage it in the pasture over here. They probably wouldn't look in a bull pen."
Where should you bury him?
A) Where Haegr suggests, they wouldn't look for a 'miracle' in a bull pen.
B) Wherever Alain finds, he knows the land.
C) Somewhere else (name a place if you choose C)
C, the glen where Fox healed the tree spirit. I don't know why but it just seems a fitting place.
"No," you shake your head, "I think I know a place they won't find him." Haegr looks askance at you.
"Where do you have in mind."
"In the dell?" Your lip quivers and you berate yourself silently for letting it sound like a question. "In the dell." Not much better.
Haegr nods slowly, "I suppose they might not."
"I'm sure they won't. Once Alain gets back we'll move him." The sarcastic voice in your head wonders why you didn't use his name. "And Haegr?"
"Yes?"
"I think it might be my fault he's dead." You shirk away from him though he makes no move towards you.
"What? Why would you think a thing like- Look, Fox, you tried to control that liony-bastard. You saved Alain's life on the roadside. It isn't your fault he wouldn't heal Ol' Jackney."
You smile, nervously, "That's not what I mean Haegr. I think I'm the one that set him on fire." Perplexion is written over Haegr's features. He opens his mouth once, then twice, and settles on keeping it shut. "I was there, in the tent-"
"-Hallo?" It's Alain's voice, but why on earth would he shout hallo. "Are you two decent." What nerve the little twerp has! Haegr makes a face and you try to simmer down. It's not that hard actually, the anger flows right out of you and drops you back into grieving.
"Yes." You call back meekly. He ought to be just outside the coach, right? "We're decent."
Alain, dripping sweat in his uniformed armor, opens the door and crawls in to sit beside you. "I found a nice spot, it's off the road a bit but easy enough to reach if you know what you're looking for."
"Fox picked a spot already. She thinks he'll be safer there." Alain looks at you skeptically.
"He will," why didn't you use his name, "I'm sure of it."
Alain looks to argue but finds reason to hold his tongue etched across your features. He shrugs and mutters something affirmative.
***
Night descends quickly. Alain returns from a stream, no longer sticky with sweat, as you and Haegr are preparing to retrieve Ol' Jackney. Ol' Jackney's body, you remind yourself, not the man himself. You'll never be able to retrieve the man himself. Tears well in your eyes but you force your morbid thoughts aside, "Focus." You berate yourself.
Haegr looks back at you and you wave the question away. He turns back around. He and Alain carry a roughshod stretcher between them; simple linen wrapped around two sticks and a cloth to place over his face. On your approach to the tent a dozen flickering candles dance into your vision. People, dressed in various clothing clutching a menagerie of religious symbols, have surrounded the physician's tent and mutter prayers in at least three different languages and dozens of dialects. Haegr is recognized as Jorn's assistant and they part incompletely. People clutch at the hem of his robe, begging to be allowed to see the saint, to touch his body, to prayer at his side.
You know Haegr can be menacing despite his relative inexperience. He does so now. His gruff demeanor frightens off all but the most desperate of plaintiffs. One man begs to see Ol' Jackney, to pray for a cure to his son's brittle limbs. You are tempted to grant it until discipline clamps down around you. It's not a real miracle. It was you setting a dead man's body aflame, Gods forgive you, in a desperate attempt to thwart his death- Again discipline sets in and drains the sneer from your face.
Fear is reflected in another plaintiff's face; you must have made an impression.
Inside the tent Jorn is going out of his mind as he finishes chasing another priest from his field hospital. "And if you want back in bring a needle and thread for the stitching of flesh!" The priest pushes past you. More accurately, he scooches past Haegr and Alain and pushes past you. An urge to snap at his heels rises and falls. Jorn turns to yell at your entourage and stops himself. "Assistant. I take it your here to claim your dead man?" His tone grates at your nerves, but, he has been awake without respite for a long time. You forgive him with effort.
Haegr leaves the weight of the stretcher to Alain and shushes Jorn with his hands. Whispering, he stands near the physician. "Yes Jorn, but we want to bury him without fuss. Can we dress him in another dead-man's clothing." The thought repells you. Ol' Jackney being buried in someone else's clothes. You mention this to Alain, who passes it along to Haegr, who shrugs. Jorn nods and sets to work.
You begin to insist when Haegr shushes you too. "He has a suit in the coach," he whispers in your ear, "we can redress him in that."
Fine, but you've no desire to see Ol' Jackneys naked dead body. You turn about, supporting the stretcher on your arm while the three men set about with the switch. Dancing lights illuminate the tent walls, flickering with what you might perceive as hope. Desperate people, you remind yourself.
They finish dressing Ol' Jackney and Jorn goes over a few lines with Haegr. Loudly but not too loudly discussing the removal of a man dead by infectious disease. You shirk a little at their brief summary of it's symptoms. Can diseases cause a man's eyes to melt? As soon as you think it images swim in your head that you'd rather have gone and your stomach revolts. You force the rising sensation down. Jorn gives you a lantern, one of his only three, by which to light the way as Haegr and Alain take up their load. The physician places the cloth over the Ol' Jackney's face and you begin the procession.
At first people press in close but you push them back with warnings and dire portents of melting eyes (and the image returns to your mind). One man looks to force the issue, so you smack him with your fingers. "Stay away damn you, or catch plague and die." He shrinks back, cowed.
***
The wooded dell looks more ominous than you have ever seen. Lit by the low and flickering flame of the lantern it appears to move as though breathing; or reaching. "Fox," Haegr questions, "are you sure this is wise." You can hear the shiver running up his spine through his voice.
"I'm sure Haegr, he'll be safe here." You waver between describing the greatful tree monster to them or not and decide against it for now. "Would you come into a place like this to rob a grave?" It appears your implications are convincing, because neither of them speak until you reach the great oak tree. Without shovels you can only think of one way to dig the grave.
"Don't watch me," you say, "I'm going to change into something." Why it would embarrass you now you do not know. Perhaps you wish for Ol' Jackney to remember you as a human woman? He's not likely to see you with his face covered like that anyhow. Alain and Haegr turn around.
The change is buffered by your grief, of all things, as you disappear and a fox takes your place. The urge to wail is strong. Setting to the dirt you dig in a flurry with your little black paws. Dirt flies between your hind legs and into the air.
Though this body is a proficient digger, it is small and the grave takes time to complete. You manage a hole nearly three feet deep, which will need to be enough. Further down roots frustrate your tender paws. Alain and Haegr took the time to change Ol' Jackney's body into his suit, if it could be called such. Loose leggings and a horse-head tunic, not much else.
You crawl out on two legs and watch as they lower him into the ground and take turns filling the hole with dirt again. As the rich soil slowly hides him from your view, you see movement by the flickering lamplight. Roots, old and thick, crawl over his limbs protectively and draw him down. The tree monster owes a favor to you that you hope it will fulfill.
It is taking Haegr and Alain some time to move the rest of the earth so you take a seat leaning against the old oak tree. "Don't let anyone take him," you whisper to it's sturdy bark, "protect him from fools and robbers." The wood creaks and leaves fall as though blown by the wind. An acorn tumbles to the ground at the head of Ol' Jackney's grave. That's promise enough.
Until a soft wind blows through that for all the world sounds like someone speaking. "Sworn," it says, and "bound." Alain looks ready to lose his calm but Haegr shushes him and throws you an inquisitive look.
"It's just the wind." Though you sound unsure yourself.
The grave covered and leaves scattered over it, the three of you look awkwardly at the ground. "Do you, er, want to say something?" Alain asks you and Haegr. "I don't really know your coachman."
Haegr shakes his head and stares dumbly at the ground.
What do you do?
A) Find something to say. You won't have another chance to say goodbye.
B) Don't say anything. You need to depart soon or risk drawing suspicion.
Then it's a tie. I'll go with A.
You shake your head at Alain. "No, I don't think there's anything to say." A sardonic smile cracks your lips, "it's bad fer bus-i-ness," you say and immediately break down crying again. Regret swells within you. Haegr takes you by the shoulder and walks you out of the dell; Alain close behind. To trudge up to the coach, pleased to find it devoid of irritating people. Once again you crawl into the coach and fall into a dreamless sleep.
***
Your eyes open with the first light of morning. Haegr is snorring heavily, leaned up on Alain's shoulder (who in turn leans on Haegr's head). "Wake up Haegr, we need to get some horses." The pain of Ol' Jackney's death has subsided within you. Perhaps subsided is not the right word, it has changed from one pain to another, just as you change from one shape to another. It is there, but lays on your stomach like a dull ache; a sore muscle from yesterday's farming.
Haegr grumbles awake and tumbles out of the coach. Alain nearly falls out, having lost his support, and curses quietly. The day makes their faces seem fresh and vital for a moment, til the actions of the week catch up with them.
But no duke will be satisfied with his servants for turning back, even if one of those servants died. You help Alain stabilize himself and offer Haegr steady footing. He reeks of alcohol, as does Alain. Apparently you were the only one to find solace in sleep last night. Haegr clutches his head, moaning softly, and staggers over to the bullpen for a leak.
You take no small bit of pleasure in torturing him, "Do you know anything about horses?" you ask loudly and clearly. Haegr groans.
"Fox, don't yell." His eyes roll back as you her the sound of rushing water. Fire rises up to your cheeks and turns them red.
"You brute." You turn on heel and march over to Alain who, apparently, is a much more skilled drinker. He stretches briefly. "Do you know anything about horses Alain?"
He shrugs, "Some, look 'em in their teeth, walk 'em and run 'em before buying, make sure they aren't purebred, because mixed breeds pull just as well."
You try to imagine Ol' Jackney's magnificent horses as anything other than purebred giants. You can't. "We've got plenty of gold for buying them, what kind of price should I look for?"
Alain shrugs again, "I don't know. Whatever you think it's worth."
Men. Useless.
Haegr's stream comes to an abrupt finish. He turns about, lumbering more than walking towards you. "Horses, right? I might be able to pick out some good ones. I tended to the Huntsmaster's stables when he apprenticed me. Know about dogs too, if you're thinking of getting one-" You throw him an irritable look, "-or not."
The three of you mount the hill to the physician's tent on your way to finding the stragglers that hadn't sold their horses yet. There appears to be a heated discussion between Jorn and four of the priests over the whereabouts of Ol' Jackney's body. Your blood boils even after Haegr places a strong hand on your shoulder. "Let it go Fox, they'll never find him. Just look at that bastard."
Jorn, to whom you believe Haegr is referring, stares at the priests in disdain. "I told you, when I returned it was gone. Probably another miracle. Go prance about and chant." The priest of Tor is taking it the worst, but you suspect Torites appreciate physicians.
"Okay," you grumble unwillingly, "lets go." A bit of mirth bubbles up through your irritation. You're not sure how Ol' Jackney felt about priests, but you're sure he'd have liked the high'n'mighty chasing their tails. "The only horse tents I remember are this way."
Alain nods in confirmation. "There won't be much to choose from. I dare say most folks will be packing up and leaving."
The sight before you does not discredit his thinking. A few folks, mostly poor people with poorer ponies, are busy putting up tents and loading gear into carts to take home. "I ought to have taken care of this earlier." (Oh that's your job was it? Pipes up the snarky voice).
A man, vaguely familiar, is standing by a loaded up cart waving his hat at the three of you. You nudge Haegr and Alain, who look over. "Who is that?"
Haegr shrugs and Alain squints, "Tendry," say Soldier-Boy, "the bull-riders father."
"That's not funny, he peed on my neck." You snap.
Haegr looks at the two of you, thoroughly confused, "Why'd he pee on your neck."
"He didn't, his boy did." Haegr looks more confused.
"Why would a boy pee on your neck? Why would you let a boy pee on your neck? You're twice as strong as any boy I've met, except myself of course."
"I didn't let him pee on my neck-" you protest.
"Well how'd he pee on your neck then? Catch you by surprise?"
You consider finding some pots and pans to clash around Haegr's head. "I was a bull, the little kid jumped on my back and peed because he was so excited to be riding on my back, ok!"
"Alright, alright. I'm not going to judge you for letting little kids pee on your neck. Adults maybe, kids no."
Is he still drunk? There will be a reckoning. You steer your companions down the hill towards Tendry's waving hat. Landry and Sarah, son and mother if you recall, are breaking down their little camp. You notice there's an old sway backed draught horse hooked up to his cart. At least it's something. "Ho there friend. Who are these fine folks with you?"
Alain smiles, pointing at you, "This is Fox, so we call her. One of those women that wins by attrition, her man here is Haegr." You blush, you blush so hard and so fast you think your head might burn off. "They're traveling up north for the Duke of Barridurn's Watch, wants some plant or such. Doesn't make much sense to me."
Tendry shrugs, "Nobs seldom do. Why the glum looks?"
Oh, were you looking glum? Probably. Alain hems and haws at the question so Haegr answers for him. "Our friend and coachman died yesterday. Thrown when a wheel broke on our cart, out cold but breathing until yesterday when he finally passed."
Tendry looks sadly at the three of you, "Been death's week, hasn't it." Sarah calls his name tersely. "Sorry, she doesn't like me getting maudlin. That offer of soup stands if you're hungry. We've got a pot on sose we can eat before heading home." The shadow of mourning crosses his face and vanishes.
You're pretty damn famished come to think of it, when did you last eat? Alain looks about ready to refuse when you accept, politely. "That sounds wonderful. None of us can cook worth a copper churl." Sarah looks at you astonished. "I'm a maid servant of the Duke's." Her astonishment fades into a matter of fact sternness.
"Well come back here deary and I'll learn you something about it." It would be rude to refuse, you're sure, so you follow the sturdy woman back who chats your ear off about the virtues of a good soup and a few well trimmed herbs. So she's on chatting about everything under the sun: price of horses, no-good merchants, nasty northerners, the giant bull, last years crop yields, yesterday's joy, and tomorrows hunger. You nod politely and interject what queued.
The soup itself is very nice. Not fancy stuff (for you once stuck your finger in a sauce as a child) but filling. You rejoin Haegr, Tendry, Alain, and Landry (who you suspect may have peed again but lack evidence). Every so often Sarah looks at Landry and sighs, an effect overlooked by Tendry and your companions. You scoot closer and ask her about parsley despite your long history with the garden.
"So what're you wandering about for?" Tendry asks.
"We sold our bull," Alain says, "to a breeder. I wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he offered a damn sight of coin for it and I couldn't say no. It looks like it was poor thinking now, because I haven't been able to find horses to pull my coach." An impressive lie, you file it away. "Came her looking for some horses but nearly everyone's packed up."
Sympathy walks over and takes a seat on Tendry's face. "I'd sell you mine if we could make do without it, but we can't be pulling the cart back ourselves." Sarah puts an arm around you and offers reassurances that someone will help you.
Haegr seems to be recovering from his funk, because he takes at the lentil soup ravenously. "Like it do you?" Sarah asks him.
"Better than the slop they brought to the physician's tent." Sarah oohs and aahs over his contribution to saving lives and asks if he heard about the miracle. Haegr looks sharply so you cut him off.
"That was Ol' Jackney, with the fire and the angel and all. Our coachman." The woman tuts and apologizes. The little voice in your head mocks you for feeling sorry about losing Ol' Jackney, who was in no way your son of so many years. You thank her for the sympathy anyway.
Tendry, looks over to the main tent where the Trade-Lord ought to be set up. "Just how much did they pay you for that bull?" Anyone else asking that question would put your hackles up.
"Sixty coins. Golden churls and the odd chont." You're intentionally low-balling the estimate, which you think to be closer to seventy-five. Tendry lets out a low whistle and his wife stares in shock, "But a bunch of good it'll do us if we can't move the coach." You lay a heavy helping of emphasis and scorn on the last of it, aimed at Alain.
What? You owe him for when you were a bull.
"Still," Tendry says, "I can see why you sold it." Sarah slaps him with a hat.
"Just like a man to see coins as valuable for themselves. I suppose you'd like a king's ransom in a pit wouldn't you?" You begin to warm to the wife.
Tendry shrugs and waves a dismissing hand at his wife, who smacks him with the hat again. "Look," he says, another smack, "alright! Alright! King's ransom in a pit. How long were you waiting to say that anyhow?" He takes the hat away on her next attempt. "Look," he begins again, more firmly than before, "Trade-Lord had some horses, massive beasts, he hoped to sell to some knights that didn't make it. Destriers I think. With coin like that, you might buy yourself some. Two would be enough to pull a coach like that, four could make it fly!" His eyes glaze over at the thought of riding such incredible beasts, "Alren could have made them dance the way he had with hor-."
Depression strikes and Tendry excuses himself under the guise of nature's call. Even Sarah dims and hushes Landry before he can asks what would be undoubtably a heart-rending question. You put your own arm around Sarah and, on a whim, Pull her over so her head is on your shoulder like Maggie did for you (only you've got clothes on).
The woman breaks down crying. Haegr takes Landry over to some trees to teach him about being a hunter, and to keep him away from his sobbing mother. "Don't get to cry much, hard times." She moans between choking sobs. You coo and whisper things. Unable to help yourself, you tug on a little fire in your belly and let it seep into her a little at a time. Threading it through her, lending her strength.
She cries for a while, before gathering herself together with words like "How embarrassing," and "I'm so sorry, more s-soup?". You part ways and take a long hard look at the Trade-Lord's tent. If you could deal with him you might get some incredible horses. But it would probably cost most of your new found fortune and would depend entirely on how desperate the Trade-Lord was. Knights have more gold to offer than servants. And even then there's the trouble of meeting someone with a title like Trade-Lord, whom you suspect has people to filter out the 'unwanted riff-raff'.
On the other hand, you can pick through the leftovers that absolutely no one else at the Trade-Meet thought were worth the price.
What do you do?
A) Go to the Trade-Lord first, the worst he can say is no.
B) Go to the last picks first, you'd be able to keep quite a fortune.
"I heard there were some destriers for sale. I am a servant of the Duke of Barridurn's Watch and require horses." They consider the prospect for a moment and decide its above their pay.
"Alright, wait here." says the talkative one while the other dips into the tent. Minutes pass, "You hear about the northerners we fought off?" You stifle an incredulous snort and nod. "I mean, there was a bull and all, but we had them on the run before that." His chest puffs up and you nod solemnly, feigning appreciation for his prowess in battle. Fortunately, you needn't feign long before the other guard returns and waves you in.
As you pass the talkative guard pinches your butt. A strong fury lights up in your stomach and burns up to your neck. Also, you blush. You quell the intense desire to strike him with no small amount of effort. If you can find him drunk and alone one night, there will be repercussions. Haegr on the other hand growls at the man, who pointedly ignores your smelly friend.
You are lead to a slight man, bald on top, you reminds you in every unpleasant way of the Head of Servants. He peers at you silently for a moment until a simultaniously bored and cross look settles on his face. "Well?" he snaps.
"I came about the destriers. I am on assignment from the Duke of Barridurn's keep and require four incomparable horses. It is my humble," you lay it on thick," understanding that the Trade-Lord had such horses, held in trust for a band of knights who never arrived. If they are fit for the duties of my lords assignment, I shall purchase them from you." With that you stop and stare at the ground, humility could help, right? The blush on your cheeks recedes.
For all your clever words, he responds with a "Hm." You prepare to speak again but Alain beats you to it.
"Sir, as a Guard of Lantern's Watch, I can vouch thoroughly for their story. We were set upon by brigands in the woods whom the Guard will bring to justice readily." Two interesting things happen. Alain puts extra emphasis on 'Guard' and the Trade-Lord twitches. Perhaps he's not so high and mighty outside the trade-meet. And what did Ol' Jackney say? The Duke of Lantern's Watch was a sort of bandit king, peasants didn't give coin. It serves to reason that the Duke himself doesn't go about bandit-kinging the peasantry.
Oh hell. Maybe Alain isn't such a swell fellow. The Trade-Lord sure looks uncomfortable as he motions for you to follow him to the impromptu stables, which of course you do; sidling a little closer to Haegr. His (ahem) 'scent' is comforting at the moment.
Destriers are not actually the sort of horse you've seen before. Barridurn's Keep has little need for warhorses when the Duke rarely makes war. Seeing the six of them before you is frightening to say the least.
They are massive.
Scents of fearlessness and dominance roll off their hides as the whicker and snort at your approach. For the first time (perhaps the second actually) you regret your heightened sense of smell. Deep in your belly Bull bellows back in challenge, fight! The heady rush of fire rolls through you, causing the horses to clamor and neigh but not back down. You fight Bull down, stuffing him back in his place, and the horses calm down. These are mighty steeds indeed, obviously meant to wear plated armor and bear heavy riders. The coach would be a toy to two of them let alone four.
But how glorious would charging down the road with four of them be?
"They were to be sold for fifteen golden churls a piece, if you feel you can match that price I will sell them to you."
Alain jumps in again, "But those people never showed up." He smirks at the Trade-Lord who's face appears to be the field of a war between greed and self-preservation.
"More likely ten churls a piece is a fair price," you chime in, "seeing as it will by money in your purse and not in your imagination." Even with as little as you know about horses, you know ten gold churls far undervalues the majestic beasts.
"Ten churls would not pay for their rearing, let alone touch their value. But I see your point, I would part with them for fourteen churls a piece."
Alain snorts derisively but you do the talking, "Fourteen churls sounds like someone is dreaming of knights showing up by the evenings fall. Eleven would be a more realistic expectation."
At some point Haegr detatched himself from your group and began giving the horses a brief once over, which you only just notice. "This one's half blind," he says nonchalantly, "we'll not want this one."
"He most certainly is not!"
Haegr takes his enormous hand and makes as if to bash the horse in it's left eye. The horse doesn't flinch. "Half-blind." The Trade-Lord grumbles more.
"I could see thirteen golden churls and five silver a piece, if you could sweeten the deal." He gives you a lusty stare. Like mercenary like master.
"You'd be giving them to me free for an honor like that." you rebuke him. What would Ol' Jackney say? Probably something really smart and insightful about horses. Something about bad fer bus-i-ness too. "It seems that keeping them just so you can dream about coin would be," you cough slightly, "bad fer bus-i-ness." Heagr snorts and promptly looks a little dismal.
"Thirteen a piece then- wait. You came in on that coach, yes?" You nod slowly. "I'll give you three for twelve a piece and your coach. What need have you of it now?"
The coach? No nononono no no no nono no no no no no nonono no... But twelve a piece is the best offer you're likely to get and you haven't got a clue what the coach is worth.
What do you do?
A) Buy at 13 a piece, you'd fly like the wind and be safe in case something happened.
B) Buy at 12 a piece and the coach, so what if you don't know how to ride? You'll learn.
C) Go somewhere else for horses, you really want to keep that money.
How many do you buy?
1-6
@13, 3 horses (2 for the coach, 1 spare) - and NOT the half-blind one
Thank you!!!
@13, 3 horses (2 for the coach, 1 spare) - and NOT the half-blind one
^^ This. Makes the best sense to me. With as much time as we spend in that ol' coach and our fondness of Jackney's memory, I just can't see parting with it. Spare horses are also always a good idea when practical.
Thank you!!!
@13, 3 horses (2 for the coach, 1 spare) - and NOT the half-blind one
This.
Thank you!!!
@13, 3 horses (2 for the coach, 1 spare) - and NOT the half-blind one
Agreed.
Edit:
Can she get a saddle too or will we have to find a leather worker for that?
You and the Trade-Lord come to a decision, counting out thirty-nine coins from Danak's ill-gotten (and ill-received) gains. Haegr takes two by the reigns, Alain one, and make their way to the coach with you trailing behind endeavoring not to upset the magnificent steeds. It's tough.
Part of you wants to dash across the field, put your mane to the wind and kiss the horizon. The other part of you would very much like to make it to the coach on two legs. Your inner two-legger wins through, barely.
You take a great deal of interest in watching Haegr and Alain struggle to strap in the horses. They're not entirely deficient at the task, being all about some basic knots, but doing so with such magnificent (and big) animals proves difficult. For one, Ol' Jackney's set up was for four horses. For two, as impressive as his horses were, these easily dwarf them. Haegr pulls out a boot knife considers sawing off the extended set of reigns which Alain argues over vehemently with him. As much as you could really enjoy an argument at the moment you remain firmly planted on the bullpen fence.
Watching someone else set up the horses bothers you immensely even though it's just Haegr and Alain. You catch yourself muttering 'bad fer bus-i-ness' under your breath. The deep ache is still there, sitting on your chest and rolling in your belly. "Grief is a luxury." you say to no one imparticular."
"Sure it is missy."
You jump, squeak out a yelp, and turn full around off the fence post. Tendry's wife Sarah is there, looking quite taken aback herself. "Sorry deary, I thought you knew I was beside you." Nope, too absorbed in your regret. Not that you've really got anything on Sarah who, quite frankly, deserves a year off just to cry. "You can cry at night sometimes, if yer man's not awake enough to be bothered by it or cover it up by chopping an onion for dinner."
Slumped limply against the fence you nod. Alain and Haegr turned to see your yelp but quickly resume bickering over the strap. "Why hide it though?"
"Because of them. Menfolk as they are." She appears to expect you to inherently understand.
"What? Haegr's tough, he'll be fine in a day."
She gives you a once over, "New bride then gally?" Sarah scooches closer to lean against you. "They hurts just as bad, worse sometimes, but they carry it closer to the heart trying to look strong for you. If you cry about it they'll just try harder to spare you the hurt. That's why you hide it." Basking in presumed wisdom, she sets herself up straight and pulls you to lean against her.
The mothering is nice. "I've never seen Haegr like that."
"Of course you have. He's not aweeping now is he, arguing with Alain like that." You're a bit caught off guard that she knows his name. It's stupid, but you are. "S'how he shows he's strong for you. He'll be dark once in a while, but still himself." Haegr's moodiness for the last few days, which you really ought to have remembered, floods back. Sarah watches understanding dawn in your eyes. "Seen him dark then?"
"Yes. He wanted to eat everything and then dance until dawn. And then he went off and shot his bow for hours." She nods sagely and you slump. Haegr must have been expecting this then; Ol' Jackney dying. "So," you're voice heavy, "onions?"
She hands you a sack and picks a saddle off the ground apparently she deposited it without your notice. Not likely to be time for silliness like missing the sound of dropped saddles on the future. "My man saw you lot heading out with the three horses, figured you didn't have a saddle. Seeing as how we haven't got that pony, we don't need it."
"And the onions?"
"For making him dinner. And if he gets too dark, you just crawl over to him in the dark and give him something else to think on."
You giggle at the her audacity and she pats you on the back perhaps assuming something else. "Sarah? Take this." You fish out a handful of the gold churls (you'll count it to be seven later) and stuff them in her hand. The woman nearly faints. "We got a lot for the bull." She snags you by the wrist and pulls you in for a hug; crying for absolutely no other reason than her proximity to onions. She gives you directions to their farm faster than falling and makes her way back to her family.
Most of her family.
Haegr and Alain's quarrel runs out of oomph and they make their way over. "What was that about?" Haegr asks the question first.
You grin broadly, perhaps broader because of her advice, "Bought a saddle off of her. Someone has to ride, right?" Alain looks at the sack in your hand. "And onions. Apparently they grow them."
Alain watches her go, "Those are good people. I think they live in your Duke's land actually, not sure though."
"On the border," you answer, "near Crest by the slow river. We're welcome any time." Sucking wind into your chest and stiffening your metaphorical upper lip you ask when to set off.
"The sooner the better," Haegr suggests, "we don't make life easier by waiting to get into the old north." He sounds con viced, though you're not entirely sure.
What do you do?
A) Wait one more night. You'll have time to rest and get a fresh start.
B) Go now (late midday). Haegr's the expert now.
Also, voting for this thread forms a legally binding contract between the voter and the author, mandating the payment of no less than seven chocolate-chip* cookies from the voter to the author, due at Thanksgiving and Memorial Day, respectively.
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You crawl up into the coach, followed by Haegr and Alain. The three of you blush after a moment and stare at your feet. "Someone ought to drive the coach." you suggest. Haegr volunteers, clambering out of the coach again. You hear him thump-thump-whumping up into the driver's seat and taking the reins. "Hup!" he tells the horses, giving a little snap of the reins.
Staring at Alain, who remains insistent on staring a hole in the floor, you try to make conversation. Alain resists the efforts at first but you press on. Everything passes through your lips, talk of the weather, the horses, the sunset, the north, talk of just about everything except Ol' Jackney.
"You're not one of them, are you?" Small talk dies.
"No. I'm not one of them."
"And you can really become ten feet tall."
"Close, if not spot on."
"How do you do it?" Wonder and concern spar across his features.
"I can't say for sure. There's a fire in my belly and if I pull on it things happen, like growing the plants or mending the wheel."
"Or turning ten feet tall and made of stone." You giggle briefly.
"I've never turned to stone, but things don't hurt as bad when I'm that big. They still hurt though." You relay the tale of the roadside bandits and your bloodied nose. "It hurts to change shape, it can really hurt a whole lot. Like I'm being broken and put back together wrong, right up until it's done. And once it's done, it's like I've been in the wrong shape my whole life."
He nods slowly. "It doesn't sound pleasant."
"Well, it doesn't hurt so much when I'm angry. Or when I turn into a fox, but I don't know why that is." You consider turning into a fox and back, but decide it would just be showing off.
"And Haegr, can he do it too?" You shake your head, "Then why does he travel with you. It doesn't really seem like you need him. Why not just stomp around ten feet tall?"
"I couldn't have made it this far without Haegr. When I change I can't think altogether clearly, the animal distracts me. Haegr's good with a bow and a sword, he's calm under pressure, and he's loyal," You catch the last word coming out of your mouth and hasten to affix something to the end of it, "to uhh, the Duke." You doubt it was convincing.
Alain says nothing of it.
"He knows a good deal about medicine, probably more now than before, and he thinks quick on his feet. The only person who could think faster is Ol' Jackney."
"Was." he corrects you.
"I'm sorry?"
"Was Ol' Jackney. You said 'is' Ol' Jackney." You blush, "Don't feel bad, it happens."
Curious, "What do you mean it happens."
"Men die in raids all the time. Sometimes you catch yourself talking about them like they were still around, until you get used to their being gone." Oh my, that's a side of Alain you've never seen before. Confliction fills you. Part of you wants to press the subject and see Alain from this side, but the other part of you wants to avoid it, to talk about anything but death.
What do you do?
A) Change the subject.
B) Pursue the subject.
B
"I don't know. I tend to get real busy after someone dies, request extra duties, volunteer for outings."
You're no mystic (actually, you might be, if mystics can turn into animals) but you wouldn't think Alain was that old. Nineteen years maybe. "How old are you?" Alain blushes, which you really weren't expecting.
"Twenty-one and a bachelor still." You nod as though that makes sense, "Still running around on adventures. Head in the clouds, yadda yadda yadda." He makes a dismissive gesture. "I enjoy the work and it's a sight better than scraping dirt."
"What?"
"Scraping dirt. Farming? You know what farming is, right?" You open your mouth to tell him just how much you know, but he's moving on, "tendings weeds, eating stones, sweating tears, right up until you fall over dead in the field. No, I'll go ahead and stay a soldier thank you."
"Farming is nothing of the sort." He looks bemused and the old urge to slap him strikes you. "Farming is growing things, creating life where there wasn't any and sustaining life where there is."
He shrugs nonplussed. "Maybe farming is different down south."
"So, who died then? Fell over dead in the field."
A frog could have slipped down his throat the way he looked. "What? What do you mean?"
"That's what you said. 'Right up until you fall over dead in the field'." If he could wriggle like a worm he'd be doing it.
"It's just an expression." Liar liar pants on fire! "Like scraping dirt."
"Oh, I just thought you knew someone that died farming. I was afraid it had been," you take a guess, "family." From the shade he turns you know you guessed correctly.
"Get out of my head."
You wave a dismissive hand, "I'm not in it, and I don't think I'd like to be in it. I suspect there are a number of women I have no desire to meet waiting there." He eases up, chuckling even, but remains guarded. "But still, you look like it was family." Your face waxes sympathetic, "I thought you might want to talk about it."
You can see the 'No' forming in his chest and blasting up to his mouth but it stops short of being said. "My brother," you nod politely, "took over our father's farm when he died of sickness. Scraped dirt for all he was worth, got married, had a son, and died within a week; plowing away like an imbecile. His wife works the plot now. Sometimes I send money over." He adds hastily.
"That's terrible."
Irritation flushes his face, "That's scraping dirt." He flops back against the coach wall, twists a few times trying to get comfortable, and finally says, "I'm going up top." Before you can protest he's out the door and up next to Haegr, leaving you alone but for your company.
You'll have some free time before nightfall it seems.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
Taking full advantage of the empty seat before you you scooch over to the far corner of the coach, prop your feet up on the opposite corner, and lean your head against the wall. Frequent bumps knocking your head against the wall suggest the road is either poorly maintained or poorly built. Forcing the back of your skull against the corner you find calm enough to drift slowly (if stutteringly) into sleep.
You awaken in your dell. Though overcast the rain itself has stopped and your surroundings bear less sinister tones. If you were to name a season to it it would be Fall. The flowers droop gently, some kissing the ground with softening petals. Bull is oblivious (Bull is always oblivious) as he dozes amongst them, his hide drying out from the rain.
Around the dell the evergreen tree's stay true to their name, green and unchanging against the apparent advance of seasons. Flint's hedge maze is no longer prickling with spines despite a general sensation of unwelcome emanating from it. And your spring is a spring, its hard for a spring to look sad. Quickly, a grin lifts your lips as you imagine the spring doing its best support the ambiance of fading. It doesn't seem inclined to oblige. It continues being completely neutral. Silly spring.
What do you do?
A) Go relax with Bull.
B) Lay amongst the wildflowers.
C) Watch your reflection in the spring.
D) Visit Flint's statue.
E) Turn left in Flint's hedgemaze.
F) Examine the evergreens encircling your dell.
We've done the rest.
Took a while to put something together. I hope it's not lackluster.
A few soft steps carry you to the edge of your dell, where the evergreen trees form a tight circle. As you run your fingers through them they prickle and tickle your skin. It's a brightening sensation, you sorely need some of those. Carrying on about the dell you walk in a long circle and contemplate see whats beyond the trees. You can't see anything but more forest, but forests have to go somewhere.
What would hapen, you wonder, if you left the safety of your dream home? To your left a rustle of branches makes you leap back. "Who's there!" you shout at the bush, only half expecting an answer. Has Maggie learned to follow you into your dreams? You don't like the idea of being surprised by a snake.
Although, it might not necessarily be a maggie-snake.
Dread creeps into your chest as you watch the bush. No movement, no shaking in it or any other bush. You step slowly back, keeping an eye on the ground around you. You can't see the snake, you haven't actually seen the snake at all, but it could be there. Maybe (right?).
There's another rustle, to your right this time. In your state of heightened paranoia you nearly leap out of your skin and land in the spring. "Stop it Maggie." You say with a healthy dose of hope. "This isn't funny."
There's a snickering behind you. Not a Maggie or a Flint snickering (you've never heard Flint snicker actually). Like a repeated soft exhalation. You turn, reading to deliver a kicking or turn and run, to to find a fox, the fox, laughing at you. It's extremely embarassing. "Ha-ha," you snort in irritation. The fox laughs harder, if that's possible, closing it's eyes as it rolls about in your wildflowers laughing at you with little foxy laughs.
The temptation to snatch a rock surfaces and you push it back down. Besides, you don't actually see any rocks nearby. Perhaps the fox hid them. You fall onto your butt in a dilapidated mockery of sitting down and glare at the scarlet trickster. The silver fox medallion slaps against your chest as you do, which is quite a shock (has that been there the whole time?). Your fingers reach up to feel cool metal.
As the red and white fox ceases laughing, she rolls about on her back, scratching it against the flowers; looking content. Too content. You snatch a handful of wildflower and throw them at the little pest. Shock registers on the fox's face as she snarls and attacks the falling storm of petals and stems.
When the plant parts settle the fox whips her head back and forth, looking for danger or at least a perpetrator. Your laughing, a sound you had not thought to make so soon, clues the little crimson furball in. With an indignant look, the fox walks over to you and throws her body at your legs. A heavy thunk is followed by the sensation of a furry creature balled up in your lap. It's nice. You rest one hand tentatively on the fox (who is not annoyed enough to move) and the other as a brace against the ground. Soon the fox is sleeping.
Warmth, soothing and gentle, rolls slowly up your legs into your stomach, up your torso and out to your arms. Wrapped in the sensation of a comforting hug, you lie out in the flowers. The fox objects extensively to this, getting up, padding off, padding back, and throwing herself against your stomach for warmth. "What do you have to show me, hm?"
Apparently, it would like to show you what a fox looks like when it sleeps.
Independant little twit.
You lie there for a long while, thinking about Ol' Jackney and Lantern's Watch and the people of the surrounding villages. He said to barter with the extra food, though you're not altogether sure what you need to buy extra. Warm cloths, you think, as you didn't own any to bring with you. A snide grin tugs at your lips as you whisper "fox fur coat". Its possible she heard you, for she shifts positions, but she doesn't appear to hold you as a terrible threat. The fox snores away happily.
Limited to interactions with sleeping animals, you take a clue and drift off to sleep yourself.
***
The next few hours are dreamless as night falls. Alain has taken the reigns and Haegr is sleeping across the coach from you. Poor boy- man, you correct yourself. Poor man is exhausted. Quietly as possible, you slip out of the coach door and struggle to get atop the vehicle. Alain is there, running the horses slowly along, vigilant against the threat of rocks or roots that might catch their hooves. "Where are we headed?" you ask innocently.
From his reaction you may as well have dropped a snake down his pants. "Gah!" It is fortunate that horses are relatively self guided, for they stay on the road despite Alains sudden jerk. "When did you get up here?"
"Just now, where are we headed?"
"There's a town," he says, keeping you conspicuously within his field of view, "maybe a short distance away, called Torch. There's an Inn there. We could have pass through it and gone on to Beacon before dark if you'd waited."
You shrug, "It was time to move on from there."
"What's that, some kind of shamany feeling?" At least he didn't call it a shaman-whorey feeling.
"No, yes, maybe." How can the idiot not realize why you left. You'd just buried him there. "It was just time to leave that place behind." He shrugs. Again, he's too dense to realize you're talking about the grave and not the horses.
"Traveling by dark still isn't smart. Especially this close to the border."
"The border? Ol' Jackney said it would be a few days to reach the border." You grab the urge to panic by the throat and throttle it. Kind of like you're tempted to do to your new coachman. Oh gods, did you just refer to Alain as the coachman? He could never, ever, replace Ol' Jackney. Saddness wells up in you and cancels out the panic. Score one for raging emotions.
"Sure, there's a sign two or three days out that's got Lantern's Watch on it, but it's not the real border. We're maybe a day out from normal northmen raiding targets. It wouldn't surprise to me to find some stragglers from that fight trying to get home. Picking lonely coaches as prime targets so they don't go home empty handed." A smile crosses his face.
"You're just trying to scare me." Which is a really stupid idea. Unless your a snake that is.
"Maybe, but that doesn't make it a lie." You take in a big wiff of the air. Nothing unusual like steel or human sweat. You open your eyes (apparently you closed them) to find Alain staring at you.
"What?"
"What were you doing."
"Sniffing."
"Sniffing what?"
"Sniffing the same thing everyone sniffs when the sniff. The air stupid." You calm your inner fury. Maybe he's scared. Alain hesitates before deciding not to say anything. "Spit it out Alain!"
"What'd you smell?" He hides his face. Perhaps he's blushing, not that you could see it in the dimness.
"Nothing. Well, Haegr, the horses, and you, but nothing else. Aside from the coach and the leather reigns and..." You inhale deeply. "the trees."
"Oh."
"No raiders though."
"Right."
"Besides, there weren't any survivors."
Your eyes what they are in the rising moonlight, Alain looks dumbfounded, "What?"
"Of the raid, at the trade-meet. None of them got away." Alain looks a little sick. "I would have noticed something like that.
***
The coach rattles into Torch a while later. The Inn isn't much, though a shade better than No One's Inn. Alain pulls the coach up as you go to wake Haegr. You barter a price with some of the food Ol' Jackney had you acquire, but the question remains.
How Many Rooms?
A) One room
B) Two rooms (choose whose bunking with you)
C) Three rooms
D) Common room
My question is actually is someone going to stay with the coach and horses? The horses were described as being worth a lot money and if we're close to the border then there are bound to be thieves about who would love to have such fine equine specimens.
I say, she gets a single room for the boys while she stays with coach. Possibly transform into a dog to guard the horses and coach.
So A and she stays with the coach.
You take a seat in the chair, keeping the little bundle of your clothing on your lap. A few minutes later both Haegr and Alain arrive and push past the door. Haegr looks at the room in surprise and Alain gives you a second askance glance.
"Um." Haegr utelizes the full measure of his wit.
Alain pipes up, "So, I take it two of us are sleeping on the floor."
"No," you smile sweetly at them, "only one person is sleeping on the floor."
"How thoughtful Fox." Haegr takes a seat on the bed, "And I thought you were going to make Alain and I sleep on the cold hard floor."
"Nope. Only one of you is sleeping on the floor." The looks on their faces are worth every boring minute you spent practicing this conversation in your head. You tilt your head to the side in the same manner that the older scullery maids tilted it at their lovers. Haegr blushes furiously, Alain takes a step back. "What's wrong, you don't want to sleep on the bed?"
You stick out your bottom lip.
The both of them stutter. They look at each other, trying to guess who's sleeping on the floor and whether there will be hard feelings about it. "Fine!" you snap, "I'll just sleep in the coach."
"Fox, wait!" Haegr reaches out and catches your shoulder, "That wouldn't be safe. Anyone could poke about in the coach and find y-" He is cut off mid sentence by your slitted feline eyes. "Oh right, I suppose it wouldn't be safe for them to poke about in the coach." He looks a little disappointed while Alain sucks in his chest.
After a few moments of stewing you snicker. "I'm just teasing. No one is sharing a bunk tonight." Their reactions are not quite what you expected. The relief you were looking for is muddled by something else. Disappointment? No, not disappointment. Well, at least not on Haegr. On Haegr?
That settles it, men are pigs.
"One of us is going to sleep in the coach, to keep it and the horses safe from pilferers and raiders."
"We could draw straws." Alain suggests, half turning as if to hide something.
"Or just take turns." Haegr says firmly.
You refuse to be embarassed by the percieved pigishness of your cohorts. "Let's do that. I slept already, so I could sit the first while in the coach. Would you like to relieve me Alain?" A small blush creeps up the back of his neck.
"Sure. That'd be fine." You laugh inside, because it's the only way you won't just wallop him.
"Great, you can tussle over the bed, burn off some of that energy. I'm going to go downstairs." Before they can respond you're out the door and in the common room. There are maybe eight people altogether, not counting the innkeep and his serving girl daughter who bustles about keeping tabs on everyone.
Of in one corner a man strums a lute, though he doesn't sing any particular song nor keep to a tune. He's happy just to strum away. Its relaxing. You settle into a chair and wait for the girl to come to you, which she does in a few moments.
"Hallo m'am. What'll I get ya?" She can't be older than you, probably a year or two younger. Not that that's important.
"Soup would be nice and something clean to drink." The girl bobs her head, slipping away from your table and snatching the empty plates from a local man. For all it's flimsiness, it has none of the seediness of No One's Inn. It looks a bit run down, nothing more.
What do you do?
A) Wait for your soup.
B) Ask the lutist to sing a song.
C) See if Haegr and Alain want food too.