Traveler [Closed] - Printable Version
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Traveler [Closed] - Tindome - 05-14-2015
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Traveler [Closed] - Tindome - 05-14-2015
Even though it was only the middle of the afternoon, Asel yawned over her tea. She wasn't tired, necessarily. Just... bored. The floors had been scrubbed and the garden had been weeded, the goat had been milked and the quail bedding was clean.
There was absolutely nothing left to keep her busy.
She'd tried getting a bit of knitting done, but her heart just wasn't in it. All the good winter wool had already been used up, and there wasn't anything she particularly wanted to make. There was nothing good on the radio -- she'd checked, and checked, and checked again. It was too late in the day to get in her boat and go to town; it would be dark before she even arrived, and she disliked being alone in town after nightfall.
She listened to the waves lapping against the rocks, the wind in the leaves and the chirping of songbirds, the squeak of the windmill's slow rotation.
What an abominably lovely day, with nothing at all to show for it.
The sand had almost all fallen through her hourglass, so she stood to get the bread out of the brick oven. Dainty cloven hooves tread lightly through the grass, carefully avoiding the wildflowers. With the wooden paddle she slid the loaf onto the table to cool, shooing away a bird who thought it was a gift just for him.
Maybe she ought to have baked a brioche. Something sweet to nibble on, to maybe make her feel better about all the things she wasn't doing and all the things that weren't happening. She walked to her garden, wooly knees brushing against bushes as she reached out and picked a peony blossom. She stuck it, experimentally, in the white curls of her hair at the base of one horn.
Was that helping? Did she, at least, feel sort of pretty and summery?
Mostly it felt a little lopsided.
So she picked another peony and stuck it by her other horn, but then that seemed awkward, so she tried another. Soon enough she was wearing a whole hat of peonies, and it had never felt quite perfectly balanced and one of her honeybees kept trying to land on her ear. She looked at her reflection in one of her windows, and decided that she looked like she had a peony bush growing out of her head.
It was not exactly the most dignified effect.
... maybe she could try putting one on the goat.
There was absolutely nothing left to keep her busy.
She'd tried getting a bit of knitting done, but her heart just wasn't in it. All the good winter wool had already been used up, and there wasn't anything she particularly wanted to make. There was nothing good on the radio -- she'd checked, and checked, and checked again. It was too late in the day to get in her boat and go to town; it would be dark before she even arrived, and she disliked being alone in town after nightfall.
She listened to the waves lapping against the rocks, the wind in the leaves and the chirping of songbirds, the squeak of the windmill's slow rotation.
What an abominably lovely day, with nothing at all to show for it.
The sand had almost all fallen through her hourglass, so she stood to get the bread out of the brick oven. Dainty cloven hooves tread lightly through the grass, carefully avoiding the wildflowers. With the wooden paddle she slid the loaf onto the table to cool, shooing away a bird who thought it was a gift just for him.
Maybe she ought to have baked a brioche. Something sweet to nibble on, to maybe make her feel better about all the things she wasn't doing and all the things that weren't happening. She walked to her garden, wooly knees brushing against bushes as she reached out and picked a peony blossom. She stuck it, experimentally, in the white curls of her hair at the base of one horn.
Was that helping? Did she, at least, feel sort of pretty and summery?
Mostly it felt a little lopsided.
So she picked another peony and stuck it by her other horn, but then that seemed awkward, so she tried another. Soon enough she was wearing a whole hat of peonies, and it had never felt quite perfectly balanced and one of her honeybees kept trying to land on her ear. She looked at her reflection in one of her windows, and decided that she looked like she had a peony bush growing out of her head.
It was not exactly the most dignified effect.
... maybe she could try putting one on the goat.
Traveler [Closed] - sir - 05-15-2015
Germat had, initially, regarded the tranquility of the ocean floor as an unmixed blessing. In the gathering twilight, it had appeared a matter of some few hundred yards to the columnar outcrop, and the idea of a brief respite from jeers and thrown tankards was distinctly appealing. The dropped jaws of the residents of Hunliet Crossing as he took his first few steam-shrouded steps had been gratifying. Now there was no light, beyond the luminescence of an occasional hunting or fleeing fish. Sometimes one would follow his own faint refulgence for quite a distance. At least one had been sufficiently distracted to fall victim to a scissor-jawed bonefish, which had regarded him balefully for a moment before seeking more familiar prey.
The mathematics of the situation were rapidly becoming dire. How much had he taken, from the autumn sun of the crossing, from its bonfires and hearths, before being ousted? How many steps would that buy?
He ran his fingers, stub-tipped and rough, along the curve of his horns, freeing an errant strand of bladder-wrack. Germat was quietly proud of his horns, although others of the people regarded their length and profusion as gauche. Ostentation, he had always felt, was a virtue- in horn and in scale.
Thus distracted, it was a few moments before he properly noted the false dawn of wave-crests above. The upward slope became acute, and he broke water on a pathetically small ledge of sand, beneath an overhanging bolus of rock.
He rolled onto his back, scales dull and matte, prime-vent respiring brackish steam instead of proper smoke. The effort of sorting out great-legs and less-legs to stand seemed impractical, for the moment. The tedious process of clearing brine and grit from vents and spiracles was not to be thought of, although, blessedly, his satchel had retained its seal throughout.
Sun-eyes, gazing upward through half-lowered lids, returned a vista of black-on-black, unrelieved by stars until he tilted back to pass the curve of the overhanging mass.
Hunt-eyes produced a slightly more nuanced view. Clinging moss, pollen, insects. Respiration.
Something interesting, Germat mused, for a time when I am not about to die.
Traveler [Closed] - Tindome - 05-18-2015
By the time she'd gone to bed, Asel had determined that she would most certainly be going to town in the morning. She had a little extra coin. Maybe she could buy a record. Or a book! Probably not both, she didn't have enough for that. But in the meantime, she would be able to look at things, and that would be nice all on its own. She woke up early to make breakfast, yogurt and quail eggs on toast. She let the quail out of their pen to roam, and did the same for the goat once she'd milked it. The goat was still snippy with her after yesterday's flower incident. It would surely appreciate a day off, so to speak.
She wore the shift that she reserved for going out, because it was a little bit longer and they preferred that in town. Which was silly, when her own wool was cover enough, but, so it went. She tied a woven ribbon around her waist, and ones to match in her horns, and did her best not to spend too much time fussing over it. She still needed time to row, after all, and the wind would mess everything all up anyway.
Dainty steps on dainty stairs, hooves tapping on stone. She stopped, and frowned as she tried to decide what was wrong. She looked up. She looked behind her. She looked at her boat. She looked down, past the steps.
Oh.
There was a… tree? Driftwood? Or a rock, maybe. But driftwood, probably, because it was on fire. And. Moving. Those certainly did look like scales.
Hm.
Yes.
She turned around, and went back up the stairs. She put the quail back in their pen and locked it, and they did not mind much, because they were quail. She put the goat back in her pen, and she minded a lot, because she was a goat. And with the animals secure, she went back into her house, and locked the door. She shut the curtains, and she went and found her luckiest quilt, so that she could sit on the floor with it pulled up over her head, as was obviously the safest thing that anyone could do in this kind of situation.
She sniffled.
She wore the shift that she reserved for going out, because it was a little bit longer and they preferred that in town. Which was silly, when her own wool was cover enough, but, so it went. She tied a woven ribbon around her waist, and ones to match in her horns, and did her best not to spend too much time fussing over it. She still needed time to row, after all, and the wind would mess everything all up anyway.
Dainty steps on dainty stairs, hooves tapping on stone. She stopped, and frowned as she tried to decide what was wrong. She looked up. She looked behind her. She looked at her boat. She looked down, past the steps.
Oh.
There was a… tree? Driftwood? Or a rock, maybe. But driftwood, probably, because it was on fire. And. Moving. Those certainly did look like scales.
Hm.
Yes.
She turned around, and went back up the stairs. She put the quail back in their pen and locked it, and they did not mind much, because they were quail. She put the goat back in her pen, and she minded a lot, because she was a goat. And with the animals secure, she went back into her house, and locked the door. She shut the curtains, and she went and found her luckiest quilt, so that she could sit on the floor with it pulled up over her head, as was obviously the safest thing that anyone could do in this kind of situation.
She sniffled.
Traveler [Closed] - sir - 05-21-2015
Basking in the morning sun, Germat felt himself in better condition; his recumbent position now a matter of choice, not necessity. Nonetheless, he was too slow to react in a civilized way to the unexpected arrival of the little Ovis girl.He had encountered Ovis before, was nonplussed thereby, and had flustered those he met in turn. When a quintessential mammalian and a creature of scales come into contact, such misunderstandings are inevitable. There was, too, a differential of size, of apparent ferocity, and so on, that was irreducible.
None of these facts excused him from the demands of noblesse oblige and the people.
He levered himself upward, settling less-legs firmly with a flare of effort and straightening great-legs with a minimum of pops and crackles. He looked down, surveying his length critically.
His scales had returned to gloss after their salt-bath of the previous evening, and his vents were a fetching crimson, refulgent. He had control; chances of an undesired conflagration were acceptably minimal. His mating grasp was without ornament, but did coil nicely in the summer warmth.
Germat reached into his pouch, rasping a brief prayer of thanks once again it had not been fouled with brine, and spent some time running bristles along his horns, ensuring his prime-vent was clear, and so on.
Attend to appearance in meeting new companions; the scale is the mirror of a respectful heart.
Now, why had the Ovis girl run?
It was possible it had been a matter of height; she was of the delicate stature necessitated by pumping warmed blood all about. A lower stance might help, bending great-legs and splaying less-legs outward to compensate; the resemblance to a crustacean was unfortunate, but ought to be comforting to a dweller at seaside.
There was also the persistent rumor that the people had fangs, of the rending, child-eating variety. Germat would simply keep his prime-vent open, displaying the lack thereof. He now resembled a bonefish crossed with a forge-fire, but at least one of those was a comfortably domestic image.
He approached the door of her domicile- exceeding humble and composed of equal parts wood and stone, far from sensible. Given she could warm herself, the chimney was puzzling, but eccentricities must be allowed.
Germat very gently scraped one horn against the door, as was polite, scoring the wood just slightly.
“I do humbly beg your forgiveness,” he rumbled, “if you were or are discomfited, put out, distressed, affrighted.”
He gave a gentle blat through his speaking-tubes, indicating profound contrition, then resumed fluting, whistling speech. He thought he could hear a faint whistling sound within, not unlike one of the people.
“My much gratitude for the giving of…your sand. Yes.”
Traveler [Closed] - Tindome - 05-25-2015
Oh, no. It was at the door. It was scraping at the wood with what were surely great big talons, and it would tear her door down and eat her just like the wolf ate the sheep who made the mistake of dying her wool vibrant colors in a forest setting.
Asel pulled her blanket tighter around herself, and sniffled again.
She blinked when it spoke. He? They? It… seemed like speaking. Her eyes were still watering, her mouth the disconsolate pout one might expect from someone waiting to be eaten. "That's… okay?" she said, though not very loudly. This was all very overwhelming. "You're, ah. You're welcome. You can take the sand. All of the sand. That's fine. I don't need it."
Or, wait. Maybe she shouldn't have said anything. Maybe she should have pretended no one was home. She pulled the quilt forward over her face and the rest of her, so that it covered her completely. A very innocuous patchwork lump. Aside from the bottoms of her hooves, which she was not aware were visible under the edge of the blanket on the floor.
"No one is home right now," she called, muffled by the quilt. "So you should just help yourself. To the sand! Just the sand! The goat is cursed. You don't want the goat. Please and thank you."
Asel pulled her blanket tighter around herself, and sniffled again.
She blinked when it spoke. He? They? It… seemed like speaking. Her eyes were still watering, her mouth the disconsolate pout one might expect from someone waiting to be eaten. "That's… okay?" she said, though not very loudly. This was all very overwhelming. "You're, ah. You're welcome. You can take the sand. All of the sand. That's fine. I don't need it."
Or, wait. Maybe she shouldn't have said anything. Maybe she should have pretended no one was home. She pulled the quilt forward over her face and the rest of her, so that it covered her completely. A very innocuous patchwork lump. Aside from the bottoms of her hooves, which she was not aware were visible under the edge of the blanket on the floor.
"No one is home right now," she called, muffled by the quilt. "So you should just help yourself. To the sand! Just the sand! The goat is cursed. You don't want the goat. Please and thank you."
Traveler [Closed] - sir - 05-27-2015
Germat was nonplussed. The reaction was not as expected, perhaps because she could not see his efforts to render himself less intimidating. Clarification was needed.“I…do not need more sand. It was for resting.” He considered. “I am not a glass-maker; that is…misconception. Stereotype. Assumption.”
His fingers tweaked the end of his horns, disconsolate.
“I have moved to be less tall, and to demonstrate that I have no fangs.”
On reflection, this statement was not sufficient.
“This was…consideration. Polite. To be.”
He straightened, resolved to return to a crouch should she seem inclined to take a look. It was, Germat judged, time to address the un’trakh in the forge.
“I will not steal your goat. Also; if I go back into the ocean, I will be…sick. People threw things, in Hunliet.”
The explanation was dragging, but he persevered.
“I walked here.”
Traveler [Closed] - Tindome - 06-01-2015
Asel listened as it continued to speak, and her confusion did not abate. Her eyes stopped watering, and she stopped sniffling. She hadn't been eaten yet, so, that was something.
"I'm... sorry?" She wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say. They still hadn't asked for anything, so she didn't know if there was something she ought to be doing. Or trying to do. Or refusing to do. "That would be bad," she agreed, because that seemed polite. Encouraging anyone to get sick would be bad. But if they'd walked, and couldn't do it again, weren't they stuck? That wasn't good. For anyone. She pulled the quilt off of her head and into her lap.
"Do you... need a boat?" she suggested. She didn't actually have a spare boat. She could always let them have hers, and build a new one, but she didn't think they'd fit. Her boat was not very big. "You can have the boat," she offered anyway, "if you need it to get home. I don't mind. I'm already home, so. I don't need it."
She didn't think she'd be going to town today.
"I'm... sorry?" She wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say. They still hadn't asked for anything, so she didn't know if there was something she ought to be doing. Or trying to do. Or refusing to do. "That would be bad," she agreed, because that seemed polite. Encouraging anyone to get sick would be bad. But if they'd walked, and couldn't do it again, weren't they stuck? That wasn't good. For anyone. She pulled the quilt off of her head and into her lap.
"Do you... need a boat?" she suggested. She didn't actually have a spare boat. She could always let them have hers, and build a new one, but she didn't think they'd fit. Her boat was not very big. "You can have the boat," she offered anyway, "if you need it to get home. I don't mind. I'm already home, so. I don't need it."
She didn't think she'd be going to town today.
Traveler [Closed] - sir - 06-30-2015
Germat thrummed, satisfied, recognizing a lessening terror in her tone.“Most kind.”
He worked a fingertip against horn, still nonplussed. Her offering of possessions was unexpected, intimate. He settled back on his less-legs, allowing his full weight to test the ground. He hunted for a delicate phrasing.
“Your boat is made of wood.”
He spread his arms a little, gesturing helplessness.
“I am needing space. I do not eat; I sleep when I am sick.”
He allowed his prime-vent to close a moment, plates clicking.
“I can make things? If you need metal in...shape. Beautiful things.”
His vents flared white for a moment, adolescent pride.
“I also am pretty. That is….all-speaking. Known widely?”
His mating grasp curled a little, brief arrogance shriveled with shame at his unready voice.
“Consensus. Yes.”
He mused, relaxing prime-vent back into open flare, folding his arms across his lap.
There had been a particular phrase a tavern-keeper's wife had used. It had been preparatory to asking him to depart, but he had remembered, as an exemplar of right behavior.
“I do not wish to be a bothering.”
Traveler [Closed] - Tindome - 07-13-2015
"Oh." Her brow furrowed as she considered this. They certainly couldn't use her boat if it was on fire. But it wasn't as if she had a fireproof boat. They'd already established that walking off the island wasn't an option. Her fingers tightened around the quilt in her lap. "But how will you get home?"
They were saying lots of things, but not all of them made sense to her. Strange phrasing, strange noises, a strange accent. She was giving them space, wasn't she? Lots of space. So, so much space. "I don't think I need any metal," she said, apologetic. She didn't know why she felt bad about not wanting anything.
She blinked. "That's. Nice?" She did not actually know how to respond to that statement. She certainly wouldn't disagree, because that would be rude. "That sounds nice." That seemed like a diplomatic thing to say. "You're... you're fine." That was not entirely true. Nonetheless, she could not bring herself to tell them that they were a bothering. She didn't want to be mean. She wanted to be nice, and polite, in a way that would get all large scary fire people away from her home. Even if this one seemed less scary than originally imagined.
They were saying lots of things, but not all of them made sense to her. Strange phrasing, strange noises, a strange accent. She was giving them space, wasn't she? Lots of space. So, so much space. "I don't think I need any metal," she said, apologetic. She didn't know why she felt bad about not wanting anything.
She blinked. "That's. Nice?" She did not actually know how to respond to that statement. She certainly wouldn't disagree, because that would be rude. "That sounds nice." That seemed like a diplomatic thing to say. "You're... you're fine." That was not entirely true. Nonetheless, she could not bring herself to tell them that they were a bothering. She didn't want to be mean. She wanted to be nice, and polite, in a way that would get all large scary fire people away from her home. Even if this one seemed less scary than originally imagined.