Justric

The Daemon Lover

The Cuckoo had to shake his head as she rushed off, chuckling to himself as he watched from the balcony as the throng prepared for her song. In the crowd, he could see the Swallow Maiden standing side by side with a Great Lion. He could only smile to himself. Feather had found Creggan, the Seneschal’s son, or perhaps he had found her. The night would only end in one way for the two of them, the only way such a meeting between two like souls could occur upon Cuckoo’s Eve. In some nine month’s time, there would be a child with violet eyes. The story between now and then could take oh so many turns, though, and provide as he might even the Devil Himself could not foresee the obstacles upon Feather’s journey. He had provided all he could, though. Come the morning, when she awoke in Creggan’s bed and with his declarations of love for her and praises for her beauty, how would she react to finding the dream made real?

A minor lady, of course, of no real standing and with no servants. Born into fallen nobility, Feather would rise up in the ranks of society as the bride of the Seneschal’s son as he became caught up in the romance of it all. He would be her savior! Creggan would restore her to her rightful position, and they would be wed happily as all of Feather’s dreams came true! The cunning part was that it wasn’t any sort of fiction. Feather was distantly related to fallen house, and while the genealogy was torturous to follow it could be proven that she was of worthy station. It would take time and worry and dedication and anxiety… but, yes, she would have what she most craved as her reward for playing her part this evening.

Yes, their wedding would be joyous! The marriage itself? The Cuckoo had no idea! He had never promised her a ‘happily ever after.’ That was a story they would have to forge themselves. His part in that story was done for now, and the next chapter in which he would make an appearance was nine months and a violet eyed child off…

When the Swan Queen began to sing, The Cuckoo leaned against the balcony rail and closed his eyes. So someone had remembered something. The words were a little different than he recalled, the tune altered just a touch here and there… but it was enough to bring back the memories of other Cuckoo’s Eves and other singers and dancers. And bring back the worst thing that there could ever be for a forgotten god and devil: hope.

But time was passing. He had allowed her that small leeway in the rules of the game, but he could not allow her any other.

***

Tambernanny stretched out his arms and shoulders to relieve his muscles of tight knots and sore kinks from laying within the haystack. Yawning, he looked across the stables towards where the woman in black gown and wings stroked the muzzle and neck of a huge white horse, a powerful beast tamed to her will. The bard blinked at her owlishly. After a moment’s pause, he rose from the pile and brushed loose straws off of his jerkin and hose; he was dressed still much as he had been when he first appeared before the Baron and with little to show any spirit of the season. He wore no mask nor costume, his handsome face unobscured as he smiled wryly at her. If he knew her true identity, he gave no indication of such and treated her as though she might be anybody.

“Forgive me, your Majesty,” he called to her archly, “I was not expecting royal company. I had thought I found a young lady to sing along with me, but some blackguard seems to have made off with her and left me to my own devices. After years of traveling upon the road, sometimes a haystack is more familiar and comfortable than an actual bed!” Tambernanny gestured upwards towards the great hall. “A fine gathering of guests the Baron has to pay homage to him, is it not? Not for the likes of myself, of course, a sad seller of songs and stories who has strayed from his station. Although someone was singing a rather fantastical song not long ago, I could hear it even from down here in the stables, so powerful was the lady’s voice! I dare say, and this in my professional capacity as a jongleur, that it has been ages since I have heard either such a song or such a singer to sing it. Truly.”

He stopped before the white stallion and gave a low, appreciative whistle. “A fine steed, your Majesty, a fine steed indeed! Were you planning a ride this evening, then? Not that it means ought to me one way or another, but tis a passing strange outfit that you would be riding out in if that’s your intention.”

Looking back at her rakishly, the bard grinned widely again. “That song… did you hear it, your Majesty? The words themselves and what they mean?” Chuckling much as the Cuckoo had, the young man strolled away towards the open doors of the stables to stare up at the sky. Hand upon hips, he sighed happily. “Too late for an evening star now, I think. There was one before the singing started, I think, but now there’s only the moon rising higher and higher into the sky. And it’s bright, too. Look at all the shadows upon the ground, like fingers reaching out into the light to snatch away all that is brightest and most precious.”

Turning back to look at her over his shoulder, he raised another arched eyebrow. “But what of belief, your Majesty? What do you believe?”

The Bonny Black Hare

James reluctantly let go of her and took a step back as he blushed. It wasn’t a sensation he was used to, this sudden heat and flush rushing to his cheeks. He’d often played the rake and the entertainer at social gatherings, the wit and the rapscallion! If pressed, James would not have been able to admit when he might last have blushed so in the presence of a woman. “The… memory. Yes…”

Something in his heart wailed in anguish against his own stupidity and stubbornness. Why did it have to be only a memory? The lord of the manor felt he had more in common with the is lively woman than with any of the daughters of the highborn or nouveau riche. James did not believe in love at first sight, thought it was nothing more than a foolish romantic notion created by writers to advance their plots. Yet there was a connection! So not love, certainly, but the recognition of a kindred spirit no matter how separated by class and circumstances.

There came a rumble of thunder, far off from the little crofter cottage but loud enough to startle him out of his emotional paralyzation. The sound of the wind picking up and winding its way through the forest’s trees could also be hard now, a soft rushing noise that carried the scent of cool rain. Looking up at the rough hewed ceiling beams, he gave a slight chuckle. “Should have known a storm was coming on.” James looked back at Brenna and spread his arms wide. “All the more reason to be thankful for you generosity, I should think.”

Gesturing to the table, he stammered only slightly as he sought for something more to say. The more he spoke, the more he found his tongue once more and fell into his more charming manner. “The food… smells wondrous. Shall we eat then? No, you sit and rest that leg, miss, and I’ll do the serving.” James gave her a rueful grin. “I think I can work a ladle and spoon without spilling too much over myself. Just give me your commands, and I shall see to it straightaway! Let the server be served! Or something like that at any rate.” A sudden thought came to him. “I do have a flask of brandy in my waistcoat pocket that should have survived my fall. Perhaps we might have that as our desert!”

World of Darkness (Boston)

Yeeah, that's what I was afraid of.

World of Darkness (Boston)

The Orphan's Wedding

As evening descended, storm clouds began to roll in to add a thick humidity to the heat and bring an early darkness to the sky. The wind was just starting to pick up when Feather let her mistress know that supper was prepared, and the breeze brought a chilling relief to the sticky weather. Feather, however, seemed oblivious to the discomfort. Hair plastered to her head, she moved spryly about and maintained her pleasant mood all the while. And when Kijani complimented her on the wonderful smells that came of her work, the girl could only smile happily.

“I’m glad you have a liking for it, mistress! Ma always says that good food should smell how it tastes, and that if you can do that you’re halfway there.” She began to pour cider from a cool jug, a share for each of them into rough wooden tumblers. “Found this in the cistern, mistress. Don’t think it’s started to turn over yet so it might be softer on your tummy than the harder stuff the menfolk drink. I don’t remember seeing it there this morning though. I think it’s fresh squeezed.”

A rumble of thunder rolled across the heavens just then, causing Feather to look up towards the ceiling. A soft patter of rain began to make itself known against the roof. “Sounds like it’ll be a sod churner, mistress. I hope Master Vinegar is alright. He hasn’t come back in yet. Working late, most like. I know he was up early this morning, too.”

It was dark enough outside now that the next flash of lightning could be seen, and a second peel of thunder rattled the shutters.

—————

Victor was not having a good day. He had stayed up late the previous night in the mill house by the steam, pressing a fresh batch of soft cider for Kijani. It had probably been an… inefficient use of the water powered cider press, but the sight of how much she had enjoyed the gifted apple the other day and the memory of watching the juices run from the corners of her mouth had stuck in his head. His houseguest had savored the fresh fruit so much that he though it a little enough thing to squeeze fresh juice for her. Come morning, he rose early to bottle it and place it in the cooling cistern for her and Feather to find.

Then after a quick breakfast, he had headed out to mark some of the older trees for cutting on the furthest lots. Apple trees were usually productive for about a hundred years, and after that would have to be cleared away for new saplings. Victor didn’t know the exact ages of any of his trees, having bought the orchards only recently, but he could tell by sight which ones weren’t producing as they should. The pear trees were worse. At best, he might get twenty years out of them. It was easy to go through the pear lots and see which ones had to go! Once the harvest was over, he could let the woodcutters in to take whatever he’d marked and (after setting aside his own share for seasoning) make a tidy profit.

Only the further lots were upstream from the mill, and he could see by the rising waters that there must have been a storm upstream; the waters were fast and muddy. Victor knew he would have to hurry back to not only beat the rains that were surely coming, but to raise the floodgate on the cider mill’s damn. If the water was allowed to build up behind the stone embankment, the damn could easily burst and wreck the mill wheel in the process! The amount of water wasn’t dangerous so much to anyone downstream. The danger was to his livelihood. Without the cider mill, a good half of his work would be impossible! The press allowed for cider and juices and apple wines, provided pulps for jellies and jams and apple butters, and a destroyed mill and wheel would destroy profits he would need to help pay hired workers in the next season.

So it was with all due haste that he had tried to drive his cart horse and wagon back. Neither were made for racing, however, and a bad rut caused him to bounce hard upon the wagon’s bench. A crack of wood echoed despair in his heart as Victor realized that the rear axle shaft must just have splintered in its moorings. The cart’s speed slowed considerably. The rains had just started as he turned about to see both back wheels canted upwards at odd angles, a sure sign that the axle had not only splintered but had outright snapped. There was no going anywhere at this point. The horse struggling in its harness, Victor snapped his head back around to see the beast suddenly go down lame. In trying to pull the shattered wagon, it had managed to throw a shoe and twist its own ankle in the process.

Victor, frustrated and angry at fate, paused long enough to chuckle bitterly. A broken cart pulled by a broken horse owned by a broken man. Looking skyward, he scowled up at the heavens and yelled, “You know, you’ve got a weird sense of humor!”

Shaking his head, he dismounted and limped forward to unharness the wounded animal before it hurt itself any more.

Never Lose Your Hat!

Fur-singed and cloak-burnt, Jötz could only stand there and stare at Ivy as she raved on and passed by. Shaking his head, he resisted the urge to point out that having lines of trade no one knew about was rather pointless. Unless of course she was talking smuggling. That he could get behind! Ivy’s rather rural and isolated upbringing made him doubt she had any such thing in mind, however, and her plan to return to Motorhum was simply out of the question. For one, he doubted the underground canals ran in that direction. And second, even if she came back draped in gold and jewels and all manner of sparkly thing, it was doubtful her family and friends would welcome her back with arms open. Again, these were things the Jaeger could see that his Sparky ward had either forgotten or never ever thought about to begin with.

Fighting back a sigh, he shrugged. “Chou can gets a new arm in Beetleburg, usually dey gots lots of mechanical vuns. Ift chou vants to grow a new vun, ve need to goes to Mechanicsburg; da great hospital der can gets it done.” Jötz pointed towards the bow. “I tink dis goes towards Beetleburg, but I don’ts know of any canal mooring der. Shtill, Beetleburg vast around vhen da canal vere built. So der’s a good chance. Ift nothing else, eet vill bring us a bit closer, eyh?”

As he spoke, he removed the ruined outer garment and tossed it into the furnace, where it sizzled and popped briefly before flaring into ash. The look on his face was morose. True, a cloak was nowhere near as important as a hat, but he had the cloak for a long time. It was almost like burning a piece of history.

Looking back towards Ivy, he decided now was as good a time to warn her of the dangers in either city. Once they were underway, she was all too likely to become distracted again.

“Look, Ivy, der ist sometings chou gotta know before ve gets undervay. Once ve gets into der cities proper, chou can’t let peoples know you is a Mad Girl. Vimmen Sparks? Der isn’t many of dem to start wit, und dey tend to go poof-vanish-gone pretty quickly so dat no one sees dem again. Dat, and if da Baron finds out? He’s gonna vant chou. To study. Maybe he finds you a safe job and do all sorts of neat Sparky stuff, and maybe he slices chou up for parts. Ders no telling. So vhen ve gets into da towns and cities? Chou gots to keep it down. Chou understand?”

World of Darkness (Boston)

Feeling rather left to flap in the wind here on both my characters. If nothing happens with the Sabbat by the end of the month, I may pull Pony from the game. If nothing happens with the hunters? Well, maybe Robert will go wandering the streets of Boston on his own.

The Highwayman Came Riding

Sounds wonderful! I'm a little out of it at the moment (long weekend fighting allergies), so forgive me if any replies you get from me tonight are either short, vague, or both.

World of Darkness (Boston)

Justing waiting on either a hunter to post for Robert or the ArchBishop to post for Pony.

The Orphan's Wedding

Didn't get it, but I just sent you one back in turn