I shall hope for this for you too, then. :)
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Is busy as fuck a good thing in this case? I always figure sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't.
That sounds scary. But otherwise yay!
I actually posted.
Eeeeee! I shall most definitely be looking forward to it! :D Hope you're feeling better! *hugs*
The Formatting Cheatsheet under the post box is also pretty helpful. Though not as indepth as the article NuttsnBolts mentions, it does have the basics.
No worries, I saw your status updates. This can wait until you're able to get to it, I'm in no rush. *hugs*
It didn’t take Herring as long as she’d expected to reach her home and squirrel away her own stash of acorns after leaving the stranger to his ways. Even so, she spared little mind for him as she finished her chores for the evening beyond tilting her head consideringly when he tripped another circle of charms. He was still moving forward, impressively, but sideways too, and if he kept on, he’d miss the forest’s centre, and was reassuringly far away from the thatch-roofed cottage she called home. And he gained a scowl in the direction she’d last known when she felt the wind wind warm around her as she sat in the doorway and used the low light to sew up the hole in her old quilt. Too warm for the forest. Full of stolen heat.
Should have known. Bringing magic here… Of course, the lack of weapons made sense now. She didn’t get as many mages after glory though—like women, they didn’t feel the need to prove themselves, she supposed, or felt they already had power of their own—so she forgave herself for not seeing it right away and bent back to the slightly uneven row of stitches she’d already made. It didn’t matter that they weren’t neat, only that she could pull them tight enough without making kinks to keep the down inside. Never perfect, but she spent effort only insofar as she was required to. When it saved her from having to work harder sooner, she did her best, when it wasn’t likely she’d be saving the quilt much past the next winter, if even, she saw little use in straining her eyes or her fingers in getting everything just right.
Pulling the knot tight and biting the thread to break it, she held the piece up for her own inspection beneath the last of the light, squinting to make out a bunch of nothing and shadows and shrugged to herself. She’d finished, if it was absolutely horrible she’d fix it tomorrow. Or the day after. She had half the summer before the frosts returned. And much else to do, besides. But for now, as dusk slid into dark and the earth trembled beneath the running deer, she listened for the snuffling breaths of its hunters and slid inside, shutting the door softly behind her and forgot, entirely, that anyone else might be hiding from the shadows tonight.
The quilt went back into the trunk at the foot of her bed, which she dropped into without much fuss, and drifted off. Her sleep was heavy, dreamless, dragging down and down until morning drifted close and called her back from the void.
She rolled over, grumbling… and didn’t stir again until soft light crept beneath the door. Prompting her to sit up when she noticed and curse the temptation that kept her from rising with the dawn. It was late. Later than she usually woke up, and there were things…. Chickens! Chickens to feed, a goat to milk, Ibi would be after her behind for the wait, and still all those bloody acorns to gather!
Her preparations were somewhat scrambled then, and she finished her breakfast beside the dairy goat, Ibi, sharing her crust with the petulant creature as she milked her and laughing at a chicken perching itself on her back. But soon enough, water drawn and goat pegged to a different section of ground where she’d find fresh fodder, chickens penned up away from predators—like the owl nesting in her rafters—Herring set out again, empty basket swinging in her hands, and steps a little more animated today, still full of energy.
Until she caught the scent of blood. It lay in the still air, and crept into her conscious like creeper vines, curling around her thoughts until she paused and turned, frowning. Remembering.
Right, moonless nights and forest guests went well together. Poor lad’s rotten luck they’d found his scent. Well, best to make certain it was him. Much as he’d not bothered her thoughts all this time, it would be a solid start to the morning. One trouble gone and dealt with, and barely any effort on her part and not even a full day in Aberlynn. Might have been a record, if there hadn’t been that one fellow slipped crossing a stream, knocked his head and drowned in naught but an inch of water.
Didn’t take long to find him. Ragged and torn, bloody and nothing else made it into her observations as her hazel eyes fell on pale hair and dark skin. Pointy ears. Grey elf. She stepped back in realization. Dark elf… Herring turned her head to spit away the curse of just seeing him. Free hand drifting towards the hilt of her small knife before she paused. Dead elf?
Looked as though the night hunters had been after him. But blood still oozed sluggishly from his wounds, and, as she stared, his chest rose, stuttered with the struggle, and fell. “Well, an’ I seen worse crowbait, though still think she’s turned ‘er eye thisaway for yeh.”
She knew what he was. Understood, now, why he’d been covered head to toe. Stories told her she should leave off and let nature take its course. If he managed to survive the next night—it was always three, when the moon vanished, and he’d only missed the first—she’d be sore impressed. But he’d be that much closer to death and dying and causing no more trouble. Dark elves could drain your strength with a touch. Smiled with teeth sharp enough to slice meat from a child’s bones. Their eyes, she’d heard, glowed in the dark, like a predator. But she’d also been told that they lived in the ground, in caves so far away she’d never have to worry. So, what was one doing here?
And when would she ever get another chance to see one up close without it trying to eat her?
Moving cautiously, unable to ignore temptation now she’d had the notion, Herring set her basket down and unsheathed her knife to have it sooner to hand. Wounded beasts were the most likely to bite.
She stepped closer, following the flow of silver hair past his face. Watching his hands, his closed eyes, flickering… Wary, as she finally stood over him and looked down. Didn’t look like much from this angle. Nightshades would have him for sure.
Should have known. Bringing magic here… Of course, the lack of weapons made sense now. She didn’t get as many mages after glory though—like women, they didn’t feel the need to prove themselves, she supposed, or felt they already had power of their own—so she forgave herself for not seeing it right away and bent back to the slightly uneven row of stitches she’d already made. It didn’t matter that they weren’t neat, only that she could pull them tight enough without making kinks to keep the down inside. Never perfect, but she spent effort only insofar as she was required to. When it saved her from having to work harder sooner, she did her best, when it wasn’t likely she’d be saving the quilt much past the next winter, if even, she saw little use in straining her eyes or her fingers in getting everything just right.
Pulling the knot tight and biting the thread to break it, she held the piece up for her own inspection beneath the last of the light, squinting to make out a bunch of nothing and shadows and shrugged to herself. She’d finished, if it was absolutely horrible she’d fix it tomorrow. Or the day after. She had half the summer before the frosts returned. And much else to do, besides. But for now, as dusk slid into dark and the earth trembled beneath the running deer, she listened for the snuffling breaths of its hunters and slid inside, shutting the door softly behind her and forgot, entirely, that anyone else might be hiding from the shadows tonight.
The quilt went back into the trunk at the foot of her bed, which she dropped into without much fuss, and drifted off. Her sleep was heavy, dreamless, dragging down and down until morning drifted close and called her back from the void.
She rolled over, grumbling… and didn’t stir again until soft light crept beneath the door. Prompting her to sit up when she noticed and curse the temptation that kept her from rising with the dawn. It was late. Later than she usually woke up, and there were things…. Chickens! Chickens to feed, a goat to milk, Ibi would be after her behind for the wait, and still all those bloody acorns to gather!
Her preparations were somewhat scrambled then, and she finished her breakfast beside the dairy goat, Ibi, sharing her crust with the petulant creature as she milked her and laughing at a chicken perching itself on her back. But soon enough, water drawn and goat pegged to a different section of ground where she’d find fresh fodder, chickens penned up away from predators—like the owl nesting in her rafters—Herring set out again, empty basket swinging in her hands, and steps a little more animated today, still full of energy.
Until she caught the scent of blood. It lay in the still air, and crept into her conscious like creeper vines, curling around her thoughts until she paused and turned, frowning. Remembering.
Right, moonless nights and forest guests went well together. Poor lad’s rotten luck they’d found his scent. Well, best to make certain it was him. Much as he’d not bothered her thoughts all this time, it would be a solid start to the morning. One trouble gone and dealt with, and barely any effort on her part and not even a full day in Aberlynn. Might have been a record, if there hadn’t been that one fellow slipped crossing a stream, knocked his head and drowned in naught but an inch of water.
Didn’t take long to find him. Ragged and torn, bloody and nothing else made it into her observations as her hazel eyes fell on pale hair and dark skin. Pointy ears. Grey elf. She stepped back in realization. Dark elf… Herring turned her head to spit away the curse of just seeing him. Free hand drifting towards the hilt of her small knife before she paused. Dead elf?
Looked as though the night hunters had been after him. But blood still oozed sluggishly from his wounds, and, as she stared, his chest rose, stuttered with the struggle, and fell. “Well, an’ I seen worse crowbait, though still think she’s turned ‘er eye thisaway for yeh.”
She knew what he was. Understood, now, why he’d been covered head to toe. Stories told her she should leave off and let nature take its course. If he managed to survive the next night—it was always three, when the moon vanished, and he’d only missed the first—she’d be sore impressed. But he’d be that much closer to death and dying and causing no more trouble. Dark elves could drain your strength with a touch. Smiled with teeth sharp enough to slice meat from a child’s bones. Their eyes, she’d heard, glowed in the dark, like a predator. But she’d also been told that they lived in the ground, in caves so far away she’d never have to worry. So, what was one doing here?
And when would she ever get another chance to see one up close without it trying to eat her?
Moving cautiously, unable to ignore temptation now she’d had the notion, Herring set her basket down and unsheathed her knife to have it sooner to hand. Wounded beasts were the most likely to bite.
She stepped closer, following the flow of silver hair past his face. Watching his hands, his closed eyes, flickering… Wary, as she finally stood over him and looked down. Didn’t look like much from this angle. Nightshades would have him for sure.
Heehee, awesomesauce!
If you need anything from me, lemme know.
If you need anything from me, lemme know.
Well, and ‘e sure ‘as some fancy words, doan ‘e?
He didn’t, really, but while he had difficulty with her accent, so she had some with his word choice. Not much, if she was being truly honest. It was more that Herring never considered any sentence starting or finishing with an accusatory you wouldn’t know, or anything with similar intent, deserving of a proper listening ear. Wasn’t any reason to hear a stranger imagining they knew anything at all about her, was there now?
Granted, most of this fellow’s assumptions were true. She’d never been strung up or beaten, had never been told she was vile or worthless—the very idea had her tilting her head again—she didn’t know what it was like to live his life anymore than he could know hers. Didn’t change the fact that he was pretending he did. It left her standing with her free hand on her hip, head still angled back and to the side in a manner that suggested confidence while her still narrowed eyes allowed for a hint of uncertainty. She didn’t have a plan for strangers who weren’t lost or here for glory. One you led out of the trees, and the rest you left to follow their destinies to an early grave or a new life. She didn’t deal with strangers, and she hadn’t the faintest clue how to treat his outburst.
Was she supposed to know how to respond to that?
Did he mean her to feel sorry for him? Because he was still walking where he wasn’t wanted, no matter what set his boots in this direction. She might have gotten angry in turn, traded outburst for outburst, but a quick puff of air to get the hair out of her face reminded her that she was tired and didn’t care. He was letting out steam like a kettle reaching boiling point, probably didn’t have a thing to do with her and if she only waited him out… there, see? The man cut himself off conspicuously, making no effort to apologise or explain himself.
Either way, she was only glad he’d stopped and didn’t seem to want her to pay it any attention. So, she pretended like he’d held his tongue properly the whole while, and even ignored the way his hands went to his wrists. Memory or recent affectation, she wasn’t going to care. He had his problems and she had hers, and unfortunately for him, he was hers.
And whatever he thought about her just now, reasonable assumptions aside, she didn’t feel the slightest sense of concern over his life up until now. Why should she? So, when he jumped back to the idea of a dragon, Herring continued staring at him.
Bringing her basket to the front so she could hold it there with both hands, and taking advantage of the height their respective positions afforded her, she made it clear she wasn’t just physically looking down on him. Making demands no please or thank you like that… her laugh, when it came, arrived after a suitably lengthy pause to make sure it was obviously mocking. And she leaned forward over the acorns ever so slightly, using what he gave her to make her message clear. If the rest of the world didn’t want him, she saw no reason to act any differently. She wasn’t going to beat him, but she wasn’t just going to do what he wanted, either. And it wasn’t just because there wasn’t any dragon.
“What makes ye think I’ve any knowin’ on where that beastie kips? Better for us both I show ye th’hole y’ought t’crawl int’ like a proper rabbit so’s isnit any trouble whate’er it be ye brung t’th’forest.” She didn’t like biding by doing as she was told. And she saw no reason to play nice now. If he was only here to hide from the rest of the world, then he could find himself some other hole and hide there. She wasn’t looking for company.
“Doan need a monster lettin’ loose round ‘ere, do I? Isnit any a one needin’ that.” Straightening up, Herring sniffed and turned away to leave him to it, whatever it might be, since he apparently wanted to join the vaunted ranks of dead heroes. She didn’t need to waste more time on him, and wasn’t about to explain that he was barking up the wrong tree looking for dragons here. There wasn’t enough light left to go back to work, but she had other chores to finish up before heading to bed.
So, off she went, muttering to herself. “Waste a time an’ good mem’ries, all these ‘ere fools. Right plague a’them.”
He didn’t, really, but while he had difficulty with her accent, so she had some with his word choice. Not much, if she was being truly honest. It was more that Herring never considered any sentence starting or finishing with an accusatory you wouldn’t know, or anything with similar intent, deserving of a proper listening ear. Wasn’t any reason to hear a stranger imagining they knew anything at all about her, was there now?
Granted, most of this fellow’s assumptions were true. She’d never been strung up or beaten, had never been told she was vile or worthless—the very idea had her tilting her head again—she didn’t know what it was like to live his life anymore than he could know hers. Didn’t change the fact that he was pretending he did. It left her standing with her free hand on her hip, head still angled back and to the side in a manner that suggested confidence while her still narrowed eyes allowed for a hint of uncertainty. She didn’t have a plan for strangers who weren’t lost or here for glory. One you led out of the trees, and the rest you left to follow their destinies to an early grave or a new life. She didn’t deal with strangers, and she hadn’t the faintest clue how to treat his outburst.
Was she supposed to know how to respond to that?
Did he mean her to feel sorry for him? Because he was still walking where he wasn’t wanted, no matter what set his boots in this direction. She might have gotten angry in turn, traded outburst for outburst, but a quick puff of air to get the hair out of her face reminded her that she was tired and didn’t care. He was letting out steam like a kettle reaching boiling point, probably didn’t have a thing to do with her and if she only waited him out… there, see? The man cut himself off conspicuously, making no effort to apologise or explain himself.
Either way, she was only glad he’d stopped and didn’t seem to want her to pay it any attention. So, she pretended like he’d held his tongue properly the whole while, and even ignored the way his hands went to his wrists. Memory or recent affectation, she wasn’t going to care. He had his problems and she had hers, and unfortunately for him, he was hers.
And whatever he thought about her just now, reasonable assumptions aside, she didn’t feel the slightest sense of concern over his life up until now. Why should she? So, when he jumped back to the idea of a dragon, Herring continued staring at him.
Bringing her basket to the front so she could hold it there with both hands, and taking advantage of the height their respective positions afforded her, she made it clear she wasn’t just physically looking down on him. Making demands no please or thank you like that… her laugh, when it came, arrived after a suitably lengthy pause to make sure it was obviously mocking. And she leaned forward over the acorns ever so slightly, using what he gave her to make her message clear. If the rest of the world didn’t want him, she saw no reason to act any differently. She wasn’t going to beat him, but she wasn’t just going to do what he wanted, either. And it wasn’t just because there wasn’t any dragon.
“What makes ye think I’ve any knowin’ on where that beastie kips? Better for us both I show ye th’hole y’ought t’crawl int’ like a proper rabbit so’s isnit any trouble whate’er it be ye brung t’th’forest.” She didn’t like biding by doing as she was told. And she saw no reason to play nice now. If he was only here to hide from the rest of the world, then he could find himself some other hole and hide there. She wasn’t looking for company.
“Doan need a monster lettin’ loose round ‘ere, do I? Isnit any a one needin’ that.” Straightening up, Herring sniffed and turned away to leave him to it, whatever it might be, since he apparently wanted to join the vaunted ranks of dead heroes. She didn’t need to waste more time on him, and wasn’t about to explain that he was barking up the wrong tree looking for dragons here. There wasn’t enough light left to go back to work, but she had other chores to finish up before heading to bed.
So, off she went, muttering to herself. “Waste a time an’ good mem’ries, all these ‘ere fools. Right plague a’them.”
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