Maddox practically jumps when he hears Gable speak up, almost as if he’s forgotten the man was there, listening. His expression isn’t necessarily irritated, however, as any annoyance is more directed at himself for being so careless. Rather, his face flits between concern and shame, while Ariathel crosses her arms defensively. She has a hunch that his comment about beige paste wasn’t meant as an insult to her cooking, but after having to fight her way to the top of the kitchen for most of her youth, she does it more out of muscle memory than anything else.
The chief of staff makes a rather defeated sound after letting the silence hang for a minute.
“The War of Frozen Fires, the mage war that took place just over two hundred years ago, do you know of it?” Maddox asks, keeping his voice low so as not to draw more attention than they already have. “Master Eris was a combatant, as you might have heard. He took a grievous wound in his left side, and it fouled badly due to poison on the blade. It ate away much of his stomach and gut, among other things. He would have died if not for one of the other mages, an artificer, who engineered mechanical replacements for what he lost.”
Here the redhead pauses, clearly debating how much more he should say. Everything up to this point, while not exactly common knowledge, is also not the sort of information Jon has actively sought to keep hidden. His deeds in war are well-written of in history books, some of the more detailed ones even going so far as to include his injury and its mechanical solution. But more than that? It’s the sort of thing that most other spell casters might try to keep secret, if only to maintain their air of invulnerability.
“They are… not comfortable for him. Painful, sometimes, for seemingly no reason at all.” He begins slowly, still picking and choosing his words. “Even if they allow him to lead a relatively normal life, the mechanical organs come with severe limitations. Anything more complex than the beige paste you’ve described is poorly tolerated at best. At worst, it can destroy one or more of the devices.”
The chief of staff makes a rather defeated sound after letting the silence hang for a minute.
“The War of Frozen Fires, the mage war that took place just over two hundred years ago, do you know of it?” Maddox asks, keeping his voice low so as not to draw more attention than they already have. “Master Eris was a combatant, as you might have heard. He took a grievous wound in his left side, and it fouled badly due to poison on the blade. It ate away much of his stomach and gut, among other things. He would have died if not for one of the other mages, an artificer, who engineered mechanical replacements for what he lost.”
Here the redhead pauses, clearly debating how much more he should say. Everything up to this point, while not exactly common knowledge, is also not the sort of information Jon has actively sought to keep hidden. His deeds in war are well-written of in history books, some of the more detailed ones even going so far as to include his injury and its mechanical solution. But more than that? It’s the sort of thing that most other spell casters might try to keep secret, if only to maintain their air of invulnerability.
“They are… not comfortable for him. Painful, sometimes, for seemingly no reason at all.” He begins slowly, still picking and choosing his words. “Even if they allow him to lead a relatively normal life, the mechanical organs come with severe limitations. Anything more complex than the beige paste you’ve described is poorly tolerated at best. At worst, it can destroy one or more of the devices.”
Sensing Ariathel’s hackles going up, Gable frowns apologetically and touches her elbow. In a gentle tone he murmurs, “I’m sorry, hun. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Despite being a literate man with perhaps more education than most of his peers back home, Gable didn’t spend much time in a formal school or browsing history books. He recognizes the war by name—must have heard it somewhere—and listens closely.
It’s impossible to hold back a grimace at Mr. Rex’s description of the mage’s wounds. The bite on his own side had been the worst pain imaginable and it felt like his insides melted away, but he had healed from the attack with no lingering effects. Well. Despite the obvious.
"I’d be in a mood, too,” he mutters sympathetically. No fresh steak, buttered dinner rolls, or crunchy apples? If a month of porridge and gamey brush rabbit night after night had dulled his own hope and appetite for life, why wouldn't the mage be depressed about not chewing his own food? Only a little child like Lee had an imagination powerful enough to make beige paste taste like…
Gable blinks.
He’d never given one of his carvings to a mage before; no one had told him there was anything particularly special about his work, besides his attention to detail and an uncanny talent at capturing likeness, but there had been times when something... unexplainable would happen. That old townswoman had told him her long lost dog came home as soon as she put the wooden bowl he'd made out on her porch; the feed shop owner, Judd Gull, didn’t see a single mouse ever since he hung up that crucifix in the storage barn; and Lee had sometimes claimed the porridge tasted like cherry pie or sweet potatoes or bananas when he used his spoon.
'Arcane talent,' the Master had said.
Coincidence and imagination, more like, Gable thinks. But what if...
“I’ll be back,” Gable promises quickly, backing away to exit the kitchen into the dining hall. He points at the Master’s unfinished dinner just before turning. “Don’t throw that out.”
Lee is still sitting at the table with the pine dog, but most of his audience has moved on for the night. Drowsy and pouting a bit, he lifts his hands to his father when he sees him. Gable scoops him up with a kiss and chats quietly while bringing him down to the servants’ quarters. They clean their faces together and brush their hair and teeth, then it’s off to bed, and Lee is eager to steal the very middle of the big mattress. It takes just a few minutes of Gable lying with him and humming softly for the boy to succumb to heavy eyelids. A kiss on the forehead seals in the sweet dreams. Or so Gable hopes.
He returns to the kitchen a short time later wielding a simple, polished spoon carved from knotty sugar maple. It’s roughly half the size of the soup spoons Ariathel’s kitchen aids had set on the dinner table, and seems to be even smaller than that in Gable's hand. He dips his finger into the beige soup just as the head cook had done earlier and tastes it for himself, then plunges the spoon into the pot, pauses with his eyes shut, and takes another taste. After a moment of pushing the mush around on his tongue (and catching himself chewing what isn't there to chew) he laughs in disbelief.
“Think about tearing into a beef brisket and hot rolls—or anything you want,” he tells Ariathel when he finds her, intense with excitement and holding out the spoon he’d filled with the Master’s meal. “Put your heart into it. Really believe that you're going to taste the best meal you've ever made.”
Despite being a literate man with perhaps more education than most of his peers back home, Gable didn’t spend much time in a formal school or browsing history books. He recognizes the war by name—must have heard it somewhere—and listens closely.
It’s impossible to hold back a grimace at Mr. Rex’s description of the mage’s wounds. The bite on his own side had been the worst pain imaginable and it felt like his insides melted away, but he had healed from the attack with no lingering effects. Well. Despite the obvious.
"I’d be in a mood, too,” he mutters sympathetically. No fresh steak, buttered dinner rolls, or crunchy apples? If a month of porridge and gamey brush rabbit night after night had dulled his own hope and appetite for life, why wouldn't the mage be depressed about not chewing his own food? Only a little child like Lee had an imagination powerful enough to make beige paste taste like…
Gable blinks.
He’d never given one of his carvings to a mage before; no one had told him there was anything particularly special about his work, besides his attention to detail and an uncanny talent at capturing likeness, but there had been times when something... unexplainable would happen. That old townswoman had told him her long lost dog came home as soon as she put the wooden bowl he'd made out on her porch; the feed shop owner, Judd Gull, didn’t see a single mouse ever since he hung up that crucifix in the storage barn; and Lee had sometimes claimed the porridge tasted like cherry pie or sweet potatoes or bananas when he used his spoon.
'Arcane talent,' the Master had said.
Coincidence and imagination, more like, Gable thinks. But what if...
“I’ll be back,” Gable promises quickly, backing away to exit the kitchen into the dining hall. He points at the Master’s unfinished dinner just before turning. “Don’t throw that out.”
Lee is still sitting at the table with the pine dog, but most of his audience has moved on for the night. Drowsy and pouting a bit, he lifts his hands to his father when he sees him. Gable scoops him up with a kiss and chats quietly while bringing him down to the servants’ quarters. They clean their faces together and brush their hair and teeth, then it’s off to bed, and Lee is eager to steal the very middle of the big mattress. It takes just a few minutes of Gable lying with him and humming softly for the boy to succumb to heavy eyelids. A kiss on the forehead seals in the sweet dreams. Or so Gable hopes.
He returns to the kitchen a short time later wielding a simple, polished spoon carved from knotty sugar maple. It’s roughly half the size of the soup spoons Ariathel’s kitchen aids had set on the dinner table, and seems to be even smaller than that in Gable's hand. He dips his finger into the beige soup just as the head cook had done earlier and tastes it for himself, then plunges the spoon into the pot, pauses with his eyes shut, and takes another taste. After a moment of pushing the mush around on his tongue (and catching himself chewing what isn't there to chew) he laughs in disbelief.
“Think about tearing into a beef brisket and hot rolls—or anything you want,” he tells Ariathel when he finds her, intense with excitement and holding out the spoon he’d filled with the Master’s meal. “Put your heart into it. Really believe that you're going to taste the best meal you've ever made.”
Ari grumbles, but tries to relax her shoulders as she uncrosses her arms. Old habits die hard and all that, but now it's clear that Gable didn't intend to insult her cooking. It was just the way things were, if they wanted to keep their (rather benevolent, by wizard standards) employer alive.
Then, like a bolt from a crossbow, Gable takes off, and Maddox is left staring at the space he previously occupied. The redhead stands frozen for a minute, processing what the man could possibly be doing that had him take off in such a hurry, what also had to do with Jon's discarded dinner. He frowns at the bowl of brown paste, and then looks back at Ari, who seems just as confused as he is, if slightly more concerned.
"Should we...?"
"No." The redhead says with a sigh and a shrug, leaning back against the counter, but not before rescuing the bowl of paste from the dirty dishes line and setting it aside. "The only place I can think that he might try to go where he shouldn't is the third floor, and he'll just get turned around if he tries. He probably just needs to put Lee to bed before it gets too late. You know how toddlers are if they stay up."
"Don't I ever." She also sighs, but it's a fond one. "He clearly has an idea though. Which, I suppose as long as the book doesn't say anything about whatever it is, we can at least give it a try. Even if we don't typically have trouble with him turning his nose up at a meal, every little bit helps, I suppose."
"True."
The two of them continue to tidy the kitchen up as they wait, occasionally sending odd looks toward the abandoned bowl of slurry on the counter as they do, even if doing so is akin to watching paint dry. By the time Gable returns sometime later, most of the other kitchen staff are gone for the evening. They both blink in unison, staring at the minuscule utensil he’s brought with him.
“A baby spoon.” Maddox says flatly as the rather large man has a rather small mouthful off the now-cold brown mush out of the bowl. “Look, I know it has the consistency of baby food, but— Ow!“
His explanation is cut short by Ariathel soundly punching his shoulder. If Gable had soothed her offense before, Maddox has inadvertently brought it back. She had always tried her hardest to make the slop as flavorful as possible, but there wasn’t anything she could do about the texture. With a skeptical look, she takes the offered baby utensil and…
And just like that the flavors of vaguely salty porridge and mashed vegetables are gone, replaced by the sweet, smoky and spicy flavors of fire-roasted pit viper her cousin had shared with her once. It had always stuck in her mind as one of the most flavorful things she had ever put in her mouth, and now her master’s mild porridge had that same taste. She stares, mouth agape at Gable.
“What is this?” She asks, gesturing at the spoon in disbelief.
Then, like a bolt from a crossbow, Gable takes off, and Maddox is left staring at the space he previously occupied. The redhead stands frozen for a minute, processing what the man could possibly be doing that had him take off in such a hurry, what also had to do with Jon's discarded dinner. He frowns at the bowl of brown paste, and then looks back at Ari, who seems just as confused as he is, if slightly more concerned.
"Should we...?"
"No." The redhead says with a sigh and a shrug, leaning back against the counter, but not before rescuing the bowl of paste from the dirty dishes line and setting it aside. "The only place I can think that he might try to go where he shouldn't is the third floor, and he'll just get turned around if he tries. He probably just needs to put Lee to bed before it gets too late. You know how toddlers are if they stay up."
"Don't I ever." She also sighs, but it's a fond one. "He clearly has an idea though. Which, I suppose as long as the book doesn't say anything about whatever it is, we can at least give it a try. Even if we don't typically have trouble with him turning his nose up at a meal, every little bit helps, I suppose."
"True."
The two of them continue to tidy the kitchen up as they wait, occasionally sending odd looks toward the abandoned bowl of slurry on the counter as they do, even if doing so is akin to watching paint dry. By the time Gable returns sometime later, most of the other kitchen staff are gone for the evening. They both blink in unison, staring at the minuscule utensil he’s brought with him.
“A baby spoon.” Maddox says flatly as the rather large man has a rather small mouthful off the now-cold brown mush out of the bowl. “Look, I know it has the consistency of baby food, but— Ow!“
His explanation is cut short by Ariathel soundly punching his shoulder. If Gable had soothed her offense before, Maddox has inadvertently brought it back. She had always tried her hardest to make the slop as flavorful as possible, but there wasn’t anything she could do about the texture. With a skeptical look, she takes the offered baby utensil and…
And just like that the flavors of vaguely salty porridge and mashed vegetables are gone, replaced by the sweet, smoky and spicy flavors of fire-roasted pit viper her cousin had shared with her once. It had always stuck in her mind as one of the most flavorful things she had ever put in her mouth, and now her master’s mild porridge had that same taste. She stares, mouth agape at Gable.
“What is this?” She asks, gesturing at the spoon in disbelief.
“Honest to goodness I have no idea,” Gable replies to Ariathel with a grin. When is a spoon not a spoon? When it’s a magical hunk of flavor-changing wood and no longer a mere utensil, one supposes.
Turning partway to Maddox, who had been there in the library when Gable presented the wooden dragon to the mage, he explains, “I always thought Lee was playing pretend when he told me his porridge tasted like pie, but after what happened this afternoon with the Master and his gift… I reckon I can do things sometimes without meaning to.”
Still glowing from the discovery, he picks up the bowl of mush and plucks a stove pot off its rack. “Let’s warm it up again and make him try it.” It’s not often that Gable would be moved to act so assertively (especially in a house where he was no more indispensable than a feed bag) but the thrill of doing something truly useful by pure accident has wound him like an everlasting clock.
After scraping the meal out of its bowl, he hands the pot off to Ariathel. It’s her kitchen and her stove, after all.
Turning partway to Maddox, who had been there in the library when Gable presented the wooden dragon to the mage, he explains, “I always thought Lee was playing pretend when he told me his porridge tasted like pie, but after what happened this afternoon with the Master and his gift… I reckon I can do things sometimes without meaning to.”
Still glowing from the discovery, he picks up the bowl of mush and plucks a stove pot off its rack. “Let’s warm it up again and make him try it.” It’s not often that Gable would be moved to act so assertively (especially in a house where he was no more indispensable than a feed bag) but the thrill of doing something truly useful by pure accident has wound him like an everlasting clock.
After scraping the meal out of its bowl, he hands the pot off to Ariathel. It’s her kitchen and her stove, after all.
“Fascinating.” Maddox says, peering over the cook’s shoulder. The spoon itself is entirely unassuming, quite literally just a child’s utensil. And yet, if Ari’s tone is anything to go by… it is, in fact, something quite remarkable. He chews on his lip while the man swipes up the bowl of cold paste, deep in thought.
Ariathel’s gaze, meanwhile, flits between the two men, and she finds herself caught somewhere in between Gable’s tempest of excitement and the chief of staff’s cautious optimism. In the one hand, this is a monumental discovery. An eating utensil that can change the flavor the user experiences? Incredible! Especially if it might be able to encourage their master to eat more regular meals. If nothing else, it might keep her and Maddox from worrying unnecessarily. Jon could be very much like a picky toddler sometimes, turning his nose up at a meal if he didn’t like the taste, or just if he wasn’t in the mood to eat. Maybe it would be worth it to at least try…?
“Perhaps it might be best to wait until morning…” Maddox drones, his logic winning out over the bubbling optimism beneath. “He said he was done eating for the night, and by now he’s probably already turning in, or settled in front of the hearth with his books. Plus, he might be more receptive to the idea if he’s actually hungry, so breakfast or lunch would probably be our best bet. There’s a chance if we try to get him to eat more now that he’ll simply refuse just because he’s in a mood.”
Ari takes the pan from Gable’s hand before her coworker’s caution has enough time to fight off her excitement. When she actually thinks about it, she knows he’s right. Jon probably doesn’t want to think about food right now, despite the newfound discoveries of the kitchen staff. He’ll be there tomorrow. So will the spoon, hopefully. Now she’s the one chewing her lip.
“You could at least go and see if he’s still awake?” She suggests to Maddox, while she fidgets by tapping the edge of the pan with her nails. “Ask if he’d be amenable to trying it. If not we can wait, of course. I can get this heating in the meantime… it was going in the trash anyway, so if he says no it’s no real loss…”
Slowly, almost sneakily, she creeps over to the stove and lights it as she speaks, already warming up the pan.
“Ugh. Fine.” The redhead rolls his eyes, but it’s fond, and only a little annoyed. “I’ll go ask him.”
Ariathel’s gaze, meanwhile, flits between the two men, and she finds herself caught somewhere in between Gable’s tempest of excitement and the chief of staff’s cautious optimism. In the one hand, this is a monumental discovery. An eating utensil that can change the flavor the user experiences? Incredible! Especially if it might be able to encourage their master to eat more regular meals. If nothing else, it might keep her and Maddox from worrying unnecessarily. Jon could be very much like a picky toddler sometimes, turning his nose up at a meal if he didn’t like the taste, or just if he wasn’t in the mood to eat. Maybe it would be worth it to at least try…?
“Perhaps it might be best to wait until morning…” Maddox drones, his logic winning out over the bubbling optimism beneath. “He said he was done eating for the night, and by now he’s probably already turning in, or settled in front of the hearth with his books. Plus, he might be more receptive to the idea if he’s actually hungry, so breakfast or lunch would probably be our best bet. There’s a chance if we try to get him to eat more now that he’ll simply refuse just because he’s in a mood.”
Ari takes the pan from Gable’s hand before her coworker’s caution has enough time to fight off her excitement. When she actually thinks about it, she knows he’s right. Jon probably doesn’t want to think about food right now, despite the newfound discoveries of the kitchen staff. He’ll be there tomorrow. So will the spoon, hopefully. Now she’s the one chewing her lip.
“You could at least go and see if he’s still awake?” She suggests to Maddox, while she fidgets by tapping the edge of the pan with her nails. “Ask if he’d be amenable to trying it. If not we can wait, of course. I can get this heating in the meantime… it was going in the trash anyway, so if he says no it’s no real loss…”
Slowly, almost sneakily, she creeps over to the stove and lights it as she speaks, already warming up the pan.
“Ugh. Fine.” The redhead rolls his eyes, but it’s fond, and only a little annoyed. “I’ll go ask him.”
“O’course, right. It’s gettin late…” Some of Gable’s enthusiasm yields to the redheaded higher-up’s rationality, but nothing can truly dampen the sense of pride warming his chest. Whether the Master puts the spoon to the test tonight or not, he knows it works, and it’s been working for weeks. What’s more, the spoon was shaped from a completely different kind of wood than the mahogany dragon—which means the wood itself probably isn’t magical after all. He is. But if that’s the case, he can’t quite understand why one carving seemed to dictate to him what it wanted to be, while he’d had firm control over shaping the other…
Realizing he’s acting the part of a dumb brick wall standing in the middle of the room, Gable steps back against the counter and crosses his arms so Maddox and Ariathel can hold their conversation. The cook’s puckish sneaking keeps a smirk on his face.
“Good man, Mr. Rex. Tell him Lee felt bad and gave up his spoon; he doesn’t want Master Eris to eat cat food anymore.” He shoots Ariathel a little wink, hoping she recalls ‘cat food’ was Lee’s description, not his.
When the chief of staff has gone, Gable moseys over to the stove to watch the paste heat and bubble. He’s quiet for a minute, still privately basking in the joy of discovering there’s a little more to him than anyone in Little Hen would’ve given him credit for.
“I wish we could give him a bit of color to look at, or something real to chew,” he muses aloud. Glancing over he adds, “He’s missing out sorely on your real cooking, little lady. Nobody knows how to whip up a supper like that where I come from. Except maybe my father, but he’s not from the town. He taught me everything I know about preparing food. You’ve opened my eyes to see it ain’t much.” A small laugh. “Did you learn everything when you came here, or did your folks used to cook? I’m… very sorry for your loss, by the way. Mr. Rex and I got to talking about you a little bit and he told me you’d lost your folks at a young age. That’s not right.”
Realizing he’s acting the part of a dumb brick wall standing in the middle of the room, Gable steps back against the counter and crosses his arms so Maddox and Ariathel can hold their conversation. The cook’s puckish sneaking keeps a smirk on his face.
“Good man, Mr. Rex. Tell him Lee felt bad and gave up his spoon; he doesn’t want Master Eris to eat cat food anymore.” He shoots Ariathel a little wink, hoping she recalls ‘cat food’ was Lee’s description, not his.
When the chief of staff has gone, Gable moseys over to the stove to watch the paste heat and bubble. He’s quiet for a minute, still privately basking in the joy of discovering there’s a little more to him than anyone in Little Hen would’ve given him credit for.
“I wish we could give him a bit of color to look at, or something real to chew,” he muses aloud. Glancing over he adds, “He’s missing out sorely on your real cooking, little lady. Nobody knows how to whip up a supper like that where I come from. Except maybe my father, but he’s not from the town. He taught me everything I know about preparing food. You’ve opened my eyes to see it ain’t much.” A small laugh. “Did you learn everything when you came here, or did your folks used to cook? I’m… very sorry for your loss, by the way. Mr. Rex and I got to talking about you a little bit and he told me you’d lost your folks at a young age. That’s not right.”
“Jon?”
Maddox’s call is soft as a whisper as he steps past the threshold to the wizard’s chambers. The fire burns low in the hearth, and most of the lights have already been extinguished or dimmed, casting the room in lengthy shadows. The sound of soft, even breathing is the only answer the chief of staff receives, and it comes from the suspiciously wizard-shaped lump in the bed.
Sapphire lifts her head with a soft trill, hearing his approach from where she lays tucked against her master in the bed. Realizing who it is, she lies back down with her head on Jon’s shoulder as she watches him, one feathery wing stretched out over the wizard’s curled form like a protective quilt. He is asleep, or so it would seem, but Maddox decides not to stick around to see just how deep in his dreams the wizard is, and creeps out quietly back toward the kitchen.
-
Ariathel holds onto her mischievous smirk, listening to Gable talk about the cat food like consistency of Jon’s meals. She feels bad for having to feed him this slop, she really does, but she also knows that messing with the tried and true recipes always has the potential to end in catastrophe. As the paste starts to bubble, she adds a little more water to it to keep it from reducing too far.
“Sometimes I can change the color a bit by adding more carrots, or green vegetables.” Ari sighs, stirring the mixture in her pan to keep it heating evenly. “It still ends up mostly brown though. I tried adding purple carrots once. It, ah, came out looking a fair bit more gray than I intended. He wasn’t a fan. I can’t do anything about the texture, unfortunately. I’ve tried just about everything permitted within the bounds of the book, but it all comes out as either a paste or a jelly, but the jellies seem to go over about as well as the purple carrots.”
A blush colors her cheeks at his subtle compliment. “A lot of the basics I learned from my mother, before she took ill. She worked as a cook at The Three Coons, the tavern that used to be in Agate Pass. She was well versed in feeding lots of people on limited resources, and taught me what she knew when I was old enough to start helping. Then, after she passed, it was just me. The tavern owner saw me as more of a liability than an asset, as young as I was, so he turned me away after that. I knew at that point I couldn’t take care of Bral on my own, so that was when I headed up here. Eschel taught me the finer nuances of cooking, helped me get where I am today. Sometimes I still miss mum, but I would never have made it this far if her death didn’t force me to look for work here.”
Maddox’s call is soft as a whisper as he steps past the threshold to the wizard’s chambers. The fire burns low in the hearth, and most of the lights have already been extinguished or dimmed, casting the room in lengthy shadows. The sound of soft, even breathing is the only answer the chief of staff receives, and it comes from the suspiciously wizard-shaped lump in the bed.
Sapphire lifts her head with a soft trill, hearing his approach from where she lays tucked against her master in the bed. Realizing who it is, she lies back down with her head on Jon’s shoulder as she watches him, one feathery wing stretched out over the wizard’s curled form like a protective quilt. He is asleep, or so it would seem, but Maddox decides not to stick around to see just how deep in his dreams the wizard is, and creeps out quietly back toward the kitchen.
-
Ariathel holds onto her mischievous smirk, listening to Gable talk about the cat food like consistency of Jon’s meals. She feels bad for having to feed him this slop, she really does, but she also knows that messing with the tried and true recipes always has the potential to end in catastrophe. As the paste starts to bubble, she adds a little more water to it to keep it from reducing too far.
“Sometimes I can change the color a bit by adding more carrots, or green vegetables.” Ari sighs, stirring the mixture in her pan to keep it heating evenly. “It still ends up mostly brown though. I tried adding purple carrots once. It, ah, came out looking a fair bit more gray than I intended. He wasn’t a fan. I can’t do anything about the texture, unfortunately. I’ve tried just about everything permitted within the bounds of the book, but it all comes out as either a paste or a jelly, but the jellies seem to go over about as well as the purple carrots.”
A blush colors her cheeks at his subtle compliment. “A lot of the basics I learned from my mother, before she took ill. She worked as a cook at The Three Coons, the tavern that used to be in Agate Pass. She was well versed in feeding lots of people on limited resources, and taught me what she knew when I was old enough to start helping. Then, after she passed, it was just me. The tavern owner saw me as more of a liability than an asset, as young as I was, so he turned me away after that. I knew at that point I couldn’t take care of Bral on my own, so that was when I headed up here. Eschel taught me the finer nuances of cooking, helped me get where I am today. Sometimes I still miss mum, but I would never have made it this far if her death didn’t force me to look for work here.”
Gray paste and suspicious jellies brings out an “Oh, dear me” with a guilty chuckle. Gable tries to suppress it for Ariathel’s sake.
The flattering warmth in her cheeks does not go unnoticed, but he is cautiously private in his enjoyment of it. He watches her profile while she talks, and his own head tilts slightly as he listens. Some of that intensity has eased out of his eyes, now, softened by the sympathy and inspiration brought on by the young woman’s determination to survive. He personally knows what it feels like to be seen as a liability, to be on one’s own at an unexpected time, and to learn how to raise a child as you were raising one. But he’s not quite as young as she’d been.
His hand comes to rest lightly on the arm she’s using to steady the pan and he gives a small squeeze. “You’ve made your mother awful proud, Miss Ari, and brought a lot of happiness to this home through your cookery. Morale is everything to a team, you know; when Cookie retired, I knew it was up to me to keep the boys’ spirits warm and dry while we were all anything but. It’s a job that takes a decent share of heart, not just skill. I think you’ve got both.” Recognizing he’s still touching her, his hand withdraws and tucks into his pocket. “I’m glad fate brought us both here.”
The flattering warmth in her cheeks does not go unnoticed, but he is cautiously private in his enjoyment of it. He watches her profile while she talks, and his own head tilts slightly as he listens. Some of that intensity has eased out of his eyes, now, softened by the sympathy and inspiration brought on by the young woman’s determination to survive. He personally knows what it feels like to be seen as a liability, to be on one’s own at an unexpected time, and to learn how to raise a child as you were raising one. But he’s not quite as young as she’d been.
His hand comes to rest lightly on the arm she’s using to steady the pan and he gives a small squeeze. “You’ve made your mother awful proud, Miss Ari, and brought a lot of happiness to this home through your cookery. Morale is everything to a team, you know; when Cookie retired, I knew it was up to me to keep the boys’ spirits warm and dry while we were all anything but. It’s a job that takes a decent share of heart, not just skill. I think you’ve got both.” Recognizing he’s still touching her, his hand withdraws and tucks into his pocket. “I’m glad fate brought us both here.”
"I've certainly done my best with the circumstances, and truly that's about all I can do." Ariathel tries to shrug nonchalantly, but the praise he keeps heaping on her makes it harder and harder to maintain her composure. "It seems like it'll be a good arrangement, you and Lee living here. I know it's not the ideal place to raise a kid, but Bralthrawn turned out fine in the end. In fact, if we hadn't ended up here, I doubt he ever would have discovered that his love of plants extends beyond just mere enthusiasm, and his talent would have been wasted being a florist or a farmer or something..."
The wood elf's head snaps toward the doorway when she hears Maddox's familiar footsteps returning. He has the tea tray in hand when he enters, and he sets it in its usual spot to be cleaned in the morning. His expression is hard to read, but it isn't smug or condescending, despite what he says next.
"He's asleep. Looks like our little experiment will have to wait until breakfast."
"Alright..." Ari nods and takes the pan off the heat to dump out its contents. She tries to hide her disappointment, knowing that letting Jon rest is probably for the best tonight, but the letdown of excitement is still easy to spot. After a second, though, her disappointment morphs into a smirk. "I'll have to make something truly vile, once we know if it works for him, just to test how strong the magic is."
The wood elf's head snaps toward the doorway when she hears Maddox's familiar footsteps returning. He has the tea tray in hand when he enters, and he sets it in its usual spot to be cleaned in the morning. His expression is hard to read, but it isn't smug or condescending, despite what he says next.
"He's asleep. Looks like our little experiment will have to wait until breakfast."
"Alright..." Ari nods and takes the pan off the heat to dump out its contents. She tries to hide her disappointment, knowing that letting Jon rest is probably for the best tonight, but the letdown of excitement is still easy to spot. After a second, though, her disappointment morphs into a smirk. "I'll have to make something truly vile, once we know if it works for him, just to test how strong the magic is."
Gable nearly forgot they were waiting for Maddox to return and jumps back from Ariathel at the sound of the redhead’s voice. Blinking at Maddox and the empty tray he says, “Shame. Best he gets his rest, though.”
At Ariathel’s comment, he snorts his way into a flabbergasted giggle. “Girl, you’re one to keep an eye on, aren’t you? Don’t let me be there when his imagination fails and he thinks the spoon’s trying to poison him.”
With one excitement come and gone, Gable remembers the cold black woods and fresh hot blood waiting for him and decides the night’s not over yet. He stretches his arms out above his head and draws a deep breath to fill his barrel chest, as if he’s just waking up. “Think I’ll go exploring for a while before turning in. Lee’s asleep and should be fine.” Sometimes there were night terrors, but Gable could always sense those; he’d come hauling back before the tyke could miss him.
He nods to Maddox and pats him on the shoulder in passing. “Mr. Rex. Miss Ari. You kids have a good night.”
-
Catcher finds Gable almost the same moment he steps foot outside the house and the oily, gamey scent of his latest catch—some mangled-up herpestid dripping from his sharp beak—isn’t exactly alluring, but it elevates Gable’s pulse.
“You coming?” he asks the kescat while moving past him, striding toward the deep and hilly forest.
The pair climb until hundreds of trees and pure atmospheric distance have blotted out the mansion’s lights. The warm, yeasty, spicy air inside the kitchen had been very pleasant and comforting to Gable; it had appealed to his humanity, to his basic need for safety, and companionship, and human comforts. But here, the crisp air almost seems to pierce through Gable’s nostrils into his brain and scrambles all of those thoughts away. The purity of it infects him; his heart pounds and his teeth ache to lengthen. But not yet.
Even knowing full well that he’s alone, he makes a slow turn to observe the still forest with sharp ears and keen, dark-sensitive eyes. There isn’t one thrill in the world he’d enjoy if it meant putting his son’s security at risk; he has to ignore his urge for immediate release and put caution first.
His chin lifts at the scraping noise of some little critter high in the trees. It takes half a blink for Catcher to shoot up the rough pine bark after the thing, then there’s some awful caterwauling and whimpering, but it’s soon cut short. Brings back memories of the inky devils Gable always heard at night alone with the herd, their hunting cries echoing in the valley as if there were hundreds of them instead of that pack of five or six. He’d always thought if he was going to get mauled by something while protecting the herd, it would have been those sly old devils.
Fate had other plans.
Satisfied to believe there are no eyes on him here (the human kind is all he’d blush at anyway) Gable strips down and stuffs his clothes and boots into a cracked log.
At Ariathel’s comment, he snorts his way into a flabbergasted giggle. “Girl, you’re one to keep an eye on, aren’t you? Don’t let me be there when his imagination fails and he thinks the spoon’s trying to poison him.”
With one excitement come and gone, Gable remembers the cold black woods and fresh hot blood waiting for him and decides the night’s not over yet. He stretches his arms out above his head and draws a deep breath to fill his barrel chest, as if he’s just waking up. “Think I’ll go exploring for a while before turning in. Lee’s asleep and should be fine.” Sometimes there were night terrors, but Gable could always sense those; he’d come hauling back before the tyke could miss him.
He nods to Maddox and pats him on the shoulder in passing. “Mr. Rex. Miss Ari. You kids have a good night.”
-
Catcher finds Gable almost the same moment he steps foot outside the house and the oily, gamey scent of his latest catch—some mangled-up herpestid dripping from his sharp beak—isn’t exactly alluring, but it elevates Gable’s pulse.
“You coming?” he asks the kescat while moving past him, striding toward the deep and hilly forest.
The pair climb until hundreds of trees and pure atmospheric distance have blotted out the mansion’s lights. The warm, yeasty, spicy air inside the kitchen had been very pleasant and comforting to Gable; it had appealed to his humanity, to his basic need for safety, and companionship, and human comforts. But here, the crisp air almost seems to pierce through Gable’s nostrils into his brain and scrambles all of those thoughts away. The purity of it infects him; his heart pounds and his teeth ache to lengthen. But not yet.
Even knowing full well that he’s alone, he makes a slow turn to observe the still forest with sharp ears and keen, dark-sensitive eyes. There isn’t one thrill in the world he’d enjoy if it meant putting his son’s security at risk; he has to ignore his urge for immediate release and put caution first.
His chin lifts at the scraping noise of some little critter high in the trees. It takes half a blink for Catcher to shoot up the rough pine bark after the thing, then there’s some awful caterwauling and whimpering, but it’s soon cut short. Brings back memories of the inky devils Gable always heard at night alone with the herd, their hunting cries echoing in the valley as if there were hundreds of them instead of that pack of five or six. He’d always thought if he was going to get mauled by something while protecting the herd, it would have been those sly old devils.
Fate had other plans.
Satisfied to believe there are no eyes on him here (the human kind is all he’d blush at anyway) Gable strips down and stuffs his clothes and boots into a cracked log.
Ari and Maddox both spare a wave for Gable as he leaves the kitchen. Even being here less than a full day, the new stable hand had acted responsibly, and neither have any qualms about letting the man roam. It’s only natural that he be allowed to familiarize himself with the grounds, and the chief of staff had kept him busy in the barn during the last of the daylight hours.
“So… what do you think of him?” Maddox asks once he hears the door to the outside open and shut.
“He’s charming. In a feral sort of way.” The cook’s answer comes with a wry smirk.
“You like him, then?”
“Not like that.” She wrinkles her nose as she cleans out the pot and leaves it in the rack to dry.
“Oh.”
“He seems fine. Responsible. I think he’ll take good care of the horses. He’s got a good heart, just not my type.” She gives him a sidelong look, the kind that is clearly trying to send a message. If it were anyone else, it would have been obvious. But Maddox, sweet, oblivious Maddox, misses it entirely.
“Yes, he does seem to have a way with animals.” The redhead muses, also missing the dirty look of failed expectations that the wood elf gives him. “I hope he and Lee stay. I think Jon likes them, despite the fight his creature got into with Plat during the interview.”
“Well that’s good.”
“I’d say so, yes.”
After that is a long silence that doesn’t seem to register as awkward to Maddox, though anyone else would certainly think it so, before the two bid each other a hasty good night, and a promise to try and work out the spoon business in the morning.
-
Beneath the comforting weight of Sapphire’s wing, Jon lays quietly as though asleep, even if he is really anything but. His eyes are shut, his breaths deep and even, but his mind is running itself in circles. The ruse was good enough to fool Maddox, though, and that was the important part.
His body hurts.
His mind is uneasy.
All he wants is to sleep off this strange malaise and move on, but it seems unlikely to happen for now. So he meditates. He counts the warding nodes scattered across the property, flicks his fingers and tugs on their magic to make them hum in his ears. No one else can hear the soothing symphony of spells he conducts, modulating their tones to reproduce a lullaby from long ago. It’s soothing, both the otherworldly music and the simplicity of knowing the wards are there and active, and that no foul thing will walk into his home without him knowing. No monster, no errant spell, no man with ill intent will creep into his home and murder him in his sleep.
Only then, when he’s solidified his own safety, do the notes of his nodes slow and his mind slip off into dreams.
“So… what do you think of him?” Maddox asks once he hears the door to the outside open and shut.
“He’s charming. In a feral sort of way.” The cook’s answer comes with a wry smirk.
“You like him, then?”
“Not like that.” She wrinkles her nose as she cleans out the pot and leaves it in the rack to dry.
“Oh.”
“He seems fine. Responsible. I think he’ll take good care of the horses. He’s got a good heart, just not my type.” She gives him a sidelong look, the kind that is clearly trying to send a message. If it were anyone else, it would have been obvious. But Maddox, sweet, oblivious Maddox, misses it entirely.
“Yes, he does seem to have a way with animals.” The redhead muses, also missing the dirty look of failed expectations that the wood elf gives him. “I hope he and Lee stay. I think Jon likes them, despite the fight his creature got into with Plat during the interview.”
“Well that’s good.”
“I’d say so, yes.”
After that is a long silence that doesn’t seem to register as awkward to Maddox, though anyone else would certainly think it so, before the two bid each other a hasty good night, and a promise to try and work out the spoon business in the morning.
-
Beneath the comforting weight of Sapphire’s wing, Jon lays quietly as though asleep, even if he is really anything but. His eyes are shut, his breaths deep and even, but his mind is running itself in circles. The ruse was good enough to fool Maddox, though, and that was the important part.
His body hurts.
His mind is uneasy.
All he wants is to sleep off this strange malaise and move on, but it seems unlikely to happen for now. So he meditates. He counts the warding nodes scattered across the property, flicks his fingers and tugs on their magic to make them hum in his ears. No one else can hear the soothing symphony of spells he conducts, modulating their tones to reproduce a lullaby from long ago. It’s soothing, both the otherworldly music and the simplicity of knowing the wards are there and active, and that no foul thing will walk into his home without him knowing. No monster, no errant spell, no man with ill intent will creep into his home and murder him in his sleep.
Only then, when he’s solidified his own safety, do the notes of his nodes slow and his mind slip off into dreams.
Catcher drops out of the sky beside Gable and shakes out his coat without even trying to be quiet. He’s covered in tufts of bloodied fur that don't belong to him. Whatever he’d caught in that treetop, he must have left it there.
“I sure hope you intend to eat everything you killed today,” Gable says, shooting him a disapproving glance while shoving his socks into the log. The kescat clicks his beak in reply and Gable clicks his tongue back, mocking him. “I know you think you need it all for the winter, but it’s wasteful. You already made me look like a fool by picking that fight with the pseudo dragon, boy, and I will stuff you before I let you ruin this for me.”
Catcher wanders away with his ears perked for any sign of rodents in the underbrush. Little does his human know, the griffin has a plan for all that meat.
Gable takes one last look around, then puts a stick between his teeth and draws in several quick, deep breaths to brace himself for what’s coming.
It never used to hurt. His body was made to rearrange itself, but not like this. Not into a beast. This form comes with explosions: near-instantaneous expansion forces his bones to twice their maximum length; his heart and his lungs balloon and his veins nearly burst before catching up; his vision goes white, black, then spotted, and time seems to slow just to watch him suffer.
He hears his own cries choke out into canine keening, then silence. The fire in his marrow quickly fades and all the beast’s joints solidify. The wolf takes its first cautious steps and scents the wind. Triangular ears swivel for signs of anything or anyone that the human’s cries may have lured here. Then it heads for higher ground.
-
There’s only an hour of darkness left when Gable dresses. A little achy but pleasantly exhausted, he decides against attracting attention to himself by entering the house at this hour and heads for the barn instead. Lee had made a nice bed out of the hay there and maybe he can, too, before the ponies are ready for their breakfast...
It feels as though he only closed his eyes a moment ago when footsteps rouse him to a startled conscious state. Realizing it isn’t a dream and his mind isn’t playing tricks on him, he stumbles to his feet. Sticks of hay jut out of his hair and the sleeve of his shirt is torn. His dark eyes have a glassy and unfocused redness to them. To say the least, he looks worse off now than when he’d arrived at Black Pine.
“Sir?” He blinks at the wizard, then glances around to try to see if the sun has risen yet.
“I sure hope you intend to eat everything you killed today,” Gable says, shooting him a disapproving glance while shoving his socks into the log. The kescat clicks his beak in reply and Gable clicks his tongue back, mocking him. “I know you think you need it all for the winter, but it’s wasteful. You already made me look like a fool by picking that fight with the pseudo dragon, boy, and I will stuff you before I let you ruin this for me.”
Catcher wanders away with his ears perked for any sign of rodents in the underbrush. Little does his human know, the griffin has a plan for all that meat.
Gable takes one last look around, then puts a stick between his teeth and draws in several quick, deep breaths to brace himself for what’s coming.
It never used to hurt. His body was made to rearrange itself, but not like this. Not into a beast. This form comes with explosions: near-instantaneous expansion forces his bones to twice their maximum length; his heart and his lungs balloon and his veins nearly burst before catching up; his vision goes white, black, then spotted, and time seems to slow just to watch him suffer.
He hears his own cries choke out into canine keening, then silence. The fire in his marrow quickly fades and all the beast’s joints solidify. The wolf takes its first cautious steps and scents the wind. Triangular ears swivel for signs of anything or anyone that the human’s cries may have lured here. Then it heads for higher ground.
-
There’s only an hour of darkness left when Gable dresses. A little achy but pleasantly exhausted, he decides against attracting attention to himself by entering the house at this hour and heads for the barn instead. Lee had made a nice bed out of the hay there and maybe he can, too, before the ponies are ready for their breakfast...
It feels as though he only closed his eyes a moment ago when footsteps rouse him to a startled conscious state. Realizing it isn’t a dream and his mind isn’t playing tricks on him, he stumbles to his feet. Sticks of hay jut out of his hair and the sleeve of his shirt is torn. His dark eyes have a glassy and unfocused redness to them. To say the least, he looks worse off now than when he’d arrived at Black Pine.
“Sir?” He blinks at the wizard, then glances around to try to see if the sun has risen yet.
Refreshed doesn’t begin to describe how Jonathan feels when he wakes. The aches of the previous day are dissolved, he feels rested, and most importantly, his head is clear. Better yet, it’s still dark when he throws the blankets back and stands to face the window. Not even the pre-dawn glow has begun to color the sky, and that fact alone makes him almost giddy. The day promises to be chilly, just by looking at the sky, but the persistent aches that come when precipitation is imminent are strangely missing. No rain, then, just the usual late-autumn fog.
Perfect.
Time is of the essence now, and the last thing he plans to do is let this rare, probably fleeting burst of energy pass him by without taking advantage of it. He has maybe two hours before Maddox comes to get him for breakfast. That’s plenty of time to make himself scarce, if he hurries, and so hurry he does. His clothes are plain and practical at first, before he digs a set of well-made leather armor, something akin to brigandine, light and flexible but still protective, out of a trunk near the wardrobe. By the time he sneaks out toward the barn, he looks every inch the war mage that he is, right down to the sword at his hip. Luckily, the only ones awake to see him are the morning kitchen staff, and they’re far too occupied to notice.
The sky is just starting to lighten when he steps into the barn, and is met by the highly-disheveled figure of Gable scrambling out of the haystack. He looks as if he hasn’t slept at all, the wizard notes with a highly controlled expression. His first thought is that the man spent the night drinking, if the redness in his eyes is anything to go by. But he doesn’t smell of booze. In fact, if anything, he smells of pine and animals.
“Good morning, Mr. Kendall.” Jonathan greets him with a guarded smile, because as good of an impression he made the day before, finding him asleep in the barn is not only unexpected, his current state is more than a touch suspicious. He continues on his mission while he speaks, quickly getting Frost’s halter on and beginning to groom him. “Was the bed not to your liking? I understand that the sharp difference between sleeping on the ground and on a mattress can be a bit of a shock, initially. Or has one of my animals taken ill?”
Perfect.
Time is of the essence now, and the last thing he plans to do is let this rare, probably fleeting burst of energy pass him by without taking advantage of it. He has maybe two hours before Maddox comes to get him for breakfast. That’s plenty of time to make himself scarce, if he hurries, and so hurry he does. His clothes are plain and practical at first, before he digs a set of well-made leather armor, something akin to brigandine, light and flexible but still protective, out of a trunk near the wardrobe. By the time he sneaks out toward the barn, he looks every inch the war mage that he is, right down to the sword at his hip. Luckily, the only ones awake to see him are the morning kitchen staff, and they’re far too occupied to notice.
The sky is just starting to lighten when he steps into the barn, and is met by the highly-disheveled figure of Gable scrambling out of the haystack. He looks as if he hasn’t slept at all, the wizard notes with a highly controlled expression. His first thought is that the man spent the night drinking, if the redness in his eyes is anything to go by. But he doesn’t smell of booze. In fact, if anything, he smells of pine and animals.
“Good morning, Mr. Kendall.” Jonathan greets him with a guarded smile, because as good of an impression he made the day before, finding him asleep in the barn is not only unexpected, his current state is more than a touch suspicious. He continues on his mission while he speaks, quickly getting Frost’s halter on and beginning to groom him. “Was the bed not to your liking? I understand that the sharp difference between sleeping on the ground and on a mattress can be a bit of a shock, initially. Or has one of my animals taken ill?”
“Yes, it’s a very good morning, Master Eris,” Gable replies while scraping the hay out of his hair. With his chin lowered humbly, the cowboy still gets a quick eyeful of that impressive getup.
Although the mage had not given him the impression of being someone who was fragile, exactly, it certainly is sobering to behold him in his armor. Maybe it's the shock of it all that makes Gable think so, but the Master looks awfully vital for this hour of the day, too. Maybe this shouldn’t surprise him; Maddox had warned him he was fond of morning rides. Watching the man move for Frost’s tack, Gable belatedly moves to assist.
“No, sir. Everyone here is right as sunshine in the summertime.”
Like he’s been caught naked rather than just horribly unkempt, Gable quickly explains himself while walking to the back room and out again: “I spent the night up in the hills and got a bit turned around.” Which was true. He’d wandered miles and miles from the estate and kept only the loosest grip on his rational mind, letting his senses take him whichever way they willed. Whenever he thought about returning to the house, it was with no real urgency. It had been the first time since taking Lee away that he’d felt like his own man again, though the guilt of that thought keeps him from enjoying the memory fully. “By the time I got back, I was worried I’d wake somebody if I entered the house, so I figured I’d land here and get a head start on everything. …After a nap.”
He waits in standby with Frost’s saddle for as long as it takes the man to get the pad situated to his liking. Then, to the Master’s preference, he either hands it off or loads it himself. “Mr. Rex had told me you like to ride in the morning, but he didn’t say what time. How long do you think you’ll be? The kitchen has an awful nice surprise for your breakfast this morning.” His knowing grin puts a little shine into his tired face.
Although the mage had not given him the impression of being someone who was fragile, exactly, it certainly is sobering to behold him in his armor. Maybe it's the shock of it all that makes Gable think so, but the Master looks awfully vital for this hour of the day, too. Maybe this shouldn’t surprise him; Maddox had warned him he was fond of morning rides. Watching the man move for Frost’s tack, Gable belatedly moves to assist.
“No, sir. Everyone here is right as sunshine in the summertime.”
Like he’s been caught naked rather than just horribly unkempt, Gable quickly explains himself while walking to the back room and out again: “I spent the night up in the hills and got a bit turned around.” Which was true. He’d wandered miles and miles from the estate and kept only the loosest grip on his rational mind, letting his senses take him whichever way they willed. Whenever he thought about returning to the house, it was with no real urgency. It had been the first time since taking Lee away that he’d felt like his own man again, though the guilt of that thought keeps him from enjoying the memory fully. “By the time I got back, I was worried I’d wake somebody if I entered the house, so I figured I’d land here and get a head start on everything. …After a nap.”
He waits in standby with Frost’s saddle for as long as it takes the man to get the pad situated to his liking. Then, to the Master’s preference, he either hands it off or loads it himself. “Mr. Rex had told me you like to ride in the morning, but he didn’t say what time. How long do you think you’ll be? The kitchen has an awful nice surprise for your breakfast this morning.” His knowing grin puts a little shine into his tired face.
“I see.” Jonathan gives the man a wry smirk as he takes the saddle and starts tightening the girth. “My schedule varies, but suffice to say that I am not usually out of the house this early, but I felt particularly spry this morning. Rather than go back to sleep, I thought I’d get a start on the day. The weather seems favorable, so I’m thinking a morning spent up in the mountains will suit me just fine. Fresh air, exercise, a little time alone to think, you understand.”
Frost yawns, and Jon uses the opportunity to get the bit in the horse’s mouth. He doesn’t complain, just licks and chews around the metal mouthpiece as the wizard buckles the leather straps of the bridle. After a moment of thought, he unbuckles the sword from his belt and secures it to the saddle under the flap, such that the hilt and amethyst-studded pommel stick out just enough to draw if necessary.
“I’m not sure I’ll be back by breakfast time if I’m honest, but lunch, certainly. Maddox will be the first to lose his mind if I’m not back by then, or if he doesn’t at least know where I am by then. The man needs a hobby. Or a partner. Maybe both, just… something else for him to worry about that isn’t me. I’ve had quite enough of his hovering, and I’m sure it eats away at him too. I’m a grown-ass man, I don’t need a minder…” The wizard grumbles, trailing off as he checks all of Frost’s tack. His good mood returns, though, once he starts leading the stallion toward the barn entrance and sees that it’s still at least a bit dark. Maddox should just be waking up soon.
With a mischievous grin, Jon hauls himself up into the saddle.
“Well, hopefully that surprise can wait until lunch.” The wizard shrugs, and gives Gable what he hopes is a reassuring look, before giving Frost a soft kick that sends him trotting off toward the edge of the property, up into the mountains. Once he passes the estate’s borders, he lets the stallion have his head, and he takes off at a brisk canter
The path he takes is well-known to him, though to anyone else it might seem strange, down this gully and up this ridge, across this stream and around that wash. But eventually Jon reins the stallion back to a walk, just at the edge of a clearing lined with standing stones, and by that point both horse and rider are breathing hard.
The sun is well up by now, causing the towering stones to cast long shadows across the bare ground. Nothing grows within the circle of stones, yet no gardener tends these grounds. It is bare of snow, too, where skiffs of wet early snow stick to the shrubbery at the edges of the clearing. Each of the twelve stones bears a vaguely humanoid image carved into its surface, arms crossed over their chest. The wizard dismounts, unsheathing his sword and leaving Frost to browse what’s left of the greenery up here, and steps into the circle of stones. The second his foot crosses the border, a thin line of violet magic illuminates the edge of the circle, and that magic creeps up to trace the outlines of each of the carvings.
Jonathan strides around the circle with long, purposeful steps, moving his body and stretching out the stiffness in his joints. He can already feel his pulse thrumming in his ears when he raises his sword at one of the stones, and with a glint in his eye that is nothing short of manic, calls out to it.
“Come and fight me, ghost-of-the-rock! Test your mettle against mine, and prove your honor!”
A second passes where the violet magic pulses along the outline of the stone carving, but then the figure of a warrior steps forward out of the rock, made of the same translucent purple magic. It is fully armed and armored, and rushes at Jon the second it is freed from its stony prison, raising its sword as if to strike, but its blade is caught by the wizard’s own with an audible ring. He smirks, parries the blow, and swings back.
Thus begins the first of the morning’s fights.
Frost yawns, and Jon uses the opportunity to get the bit in the horse’s mouth. He doesn’t complain, just licks and chews around the metal mouthpiece as the wizard buckles the leather straps of the bridle. After a moment of thought, he unbuckles the sword from his belt and secures it to the saddle under the flap, such that the hilt and amethyst-studded pommel stick out just enough to draw if necessary.
“I’m not sure I’ll be back by breakfast time if I’m honest, but lunch, certainly. Maddox will be the first to lose his mind if I’m not back by then, or if he doesn’t at least know where I am by then. The man needs a hobby. Or a partner. Maybe both, just… something else for him to worry about that isn’t me. I’ve had quite enough of his hovering, and I’m sure it eats away at him too. I’m a grown-ass man, I don’t need a minder…” The wizard grumbles, trailing off as he checks all of Frost’s tack. His good mood returns, though, once he starts leading the stallion toward the barn entrance and sees that it’s still at least a bit dark. Maddox should just be waking up soon.
With a mischievous grin, Jon hauls himself up into the saddle.
“Well, hopefully that surprise can wait until lunch.” The wizard shrugs, and gives Gable what he hopes is a reassuring look, before giving Frost a soft kick that sends him trotting off toward the edge of the property, up into the mountains. Once he passes the estate’s borders, he lets the stallion have his head, and he takes off at a brisk canter
The path he takes is well-known to him, though to anyone else it might seem strange, down this gully and up this ridge, across this stream and around that wash. But eventually Jon reins the stallion back to a walk, just at the edge of a clearing lined with standing stones, and by that point both horse and rider are breathing hard.
The sun is well up by now, causing the towering stones to cast long shadows across the bare ground. Nothing grows within the circle of stones, yet no gardener tends these grounds. It is bare of snow, too, where skiffs of wet early snow stick to the shrubbery at the edges of the clearing. Each of the twelve stones bears a vaguely humanoid image carved into its surface, arms crossed over their chest. The wizard dismounts, unsheathing his sword and leaving Frost to browse what’s left of the greenery up here, and steps into the circle of stones. The second his foot crosses the border, a thin line of violet magic illuminates the edge of the circle, and that magic creeps up to trace the outlines of each of the carvings.
Jonathan strides around the circle with long, purposeful steps, moving his body and stretching out the stiffness in his joints. He can already feel his pulse thrumming in his ears when he raises his sword at one of the stones, and with a glint in his eye that is nothing short of manic, calls out to it.
“Come and fight me, ghost-of-the-rock! Test your mettle against mine, and prove your honor!”
A second passes where the violet magic pulses along the outline of the stone carving, but then the figure of a warrior steps forward out of the rock, made of the same translucent purple magic. It is fully armed and armored, and rushes at Jon the second it is freed from its stony prison, raising its sword as if to strike, but its blade is caught by the wizard’s own with an audible ring. He smirks, parries the blow, and swings back.
Thus begins the first of the morning’s fights.
“That I do,” Gable agrees with a little bleary-eyed grin. If there’s only one thing he and the mage might have in common, he’s glad it’s an appreciation for the solitude of nature.
The wizard’s grumbling sounds an awful lot like the nonsense Lee mutters under his breath sometimes and Gable chuckles quietly at the comparison. “Aw, but Mr. Rex just cares for you, sir. So does Miss Ariathel. Those two would just about eat their hats if they thought it would serve you well. Makes me pretty happy to be here, too, if I’m honest; you can tell a lot about a man by the attitude of his employees. Ain’t ever met a mixed batch of employees. They’re either all sour or all sweet—except for those few miserable or blessed folk that might just always see the world as dark or light. But usually if you’ve got a mad bunch or a happy bunch, it’s because of the example the boss sets.”
Gable’s ramble continues from Frost’s stall to the barn’s entrance, where he walks beside the horse and his rider until they pause in the doorway. He gives the handsome stallion a fond pat on his neck and murmurs a superstitious blessing: “Fleet feet and home whole.”
Looking like he’s about ready to drop but still smiling a bit, he nods to the Master and promises, “It’ll keep until you’re ready for it.”
-
The bed is empty when Lee’s eyes open. It’s dark here and the sky is missing. Where have all the stars gone? And why are the trees so silent? Nothing looks right. Nothing smells right. “...Pop?”
Chills run through him as someone’s footsteps hurry down the hall outside the bedroom. A swish of candlelight goes with them through the little space beneath the door, then darkness again. “Papa!”
Climbing out of the tangly sheets, Lee runs on tiptoes to the door. The handle is slippery and made for grownup hands, but he manages to twist and pull and stumble out into the big hall. It’s empty, and seems to stretch for miles and miles in both directions.
The wizard’s grumbling sounds an awful lot like the nonsense Lee mutters under his breath sometimes and Gable chuckles quietly at the comparison. “Aw, but Mr. Rex just cares for you, sir. So does Miss Ariathel. Those two would just about eat their hats if they thought it would serve you well. Makes me pretty happy to be here, too, if I’m honest; you can tell a lot about a man by the attitude of his employees. Ain’t ever met a mixed batch of employees. They’re either all sour or all sweet—except for those few miserable or blessed folk that might just always see the world as dark or light. But usually if you’ve got a mad bunch or a happy bunch, it’s because of the example the boss sets.”
Gable’s ramble continues from Frost’s stall to the barn’s entrance, where he walks beside the horse and his rider until they pause in the doorway. He gives the handsome stallion a fond pat on his neck and murmurs a superstitious blessing: “Fleet feet and home whole.”
Looking like he’s about ready to drop but still smiling a bit, he nods to the Master and promises, “It’ll keep until you’re ready for it.”
-
The bed is empty when Lee’s eyes open. It’s dark here and the sky is missing. Where have all the stars gone? And why are the trees so silent? Nothing looks right. Nothing smells right. “...Pop?”
Chills run through him as someone’s footsteps hurry down the hall outside the bedroom. A swish of candlelight goes with them through the little space beneath the door, then darkness again. “Papa!”
Climbing out of the tangly sheets, Lee runs on tiptoes to the door. The handle is slippery and made for grownup hands, but he manages to twist and pull and stumble out into the big hall. It’s empty, and seems to stretch for miles and miles in both directions.
Maddox is… calm. Very calm, actually. Or at least that’s what he keeps telling himself as he scours the house for his master. It isn’t having the calming effect he had hoped for, as he can feel a headache building with each space he searches, expecting to find a sneaky wizard and turning up empty handed. It is long past breakfast, nearing lunch time, in fact. Ariathel has already used the phrase “stick a magic spoon in that man’s face” more times than the redhead would care to hear it in her repetitive threatening of what she’ll do if he doesn’t find Jon soon.
Bedroom? Empty. Library? Also empty. Greenhouse? Devoid of wizards. The little hollow just off the property? Barren. The swimming hole (It was already far too cold for swimming by Maddox’s standards, but he’d caught Jon there before in the dead of winter)? Functionally empty because although he was there, the chief of staff wasn’t actually looking for Bralthrawn. The kitchen? Probably one of the least likely places to find him and also wizard-free.
Although he hasn’t seen any riders in the paddocks since he checked from the window earlier that morning, he finds himself creeping into the barn in a last ditch effort to find the wizard.
“Mr. Kendall?” He calls, peeking into Frost’s stall as he steps into the aisle. Empty. So wherever he is, he probably has Frost with him. That could be good, or bad. “You haven’t happened to see Master Eris this morning, have you?”
-
Each time he fells an ethereal foe, two more rise to take its place. It takes until he is fighting off four at once for him to break a sweat, and six before he begins to feel winded. That is when he starts getting sloppy, when his blows lose some of their ferocity, where his spells start missing their mark a little more frequently, when his dodges slow down just enough to get hit every so often. Their weapons can’t hurt him, not seriously anyway. Cuts and bruises are the worst of it, what would have been lethal wounds translated into much milder analogies. Still, when one specter makes a well-placed cut under his jaw and its partner immediately slams its mace into his side, effectively knocking the wind out of him, he realizes it’s time to admit defeat.
With a wave of his hand Jonathan dispels the magic, causing the phantoms to disappear back into their stones, and quite quickly after drops to his knees in the cold dirt to wheeze for a minute. There was a time when it took all twelve of them to get him to this point, an unfortunate reminder of his advancing age.
“Ow…” By the time he can take in a full breath of air, blood from the freshest cut on his neck has started dripping into the dirt. With a shaking hand he attempts to wipe away the evidence, but more red just wells up in its place. The wizard grunts, figuring it will (hopefully) clot up on the ride home. It’s already noon, but he feels rather inclined to take his time on the way back. Maybe he’ll be able to clean himself up in the creek…
Bedroom? Empty. Library? Also empty. Greenhouse? Devoid of wizards. The little hollow just off the property? Barren. The swimming hole (It was already far too cold for swimming by Maddox’s standards, but he’d caught Jon there before in the dead of winter)? Functionally empty because although he was there, the chief of staff wasn’t actually looking for Bralthrawn. The kitchen? Probably one of the least likely places to find him and also wizard-free.
Although he hasn’t seen any riders in the paddocks since he checked from the window earlier that morning, he finds himself creeping into the barn in a last ditch effort to find the wizard.
“Mr. Kendall?” He calls, peeking into Frost’s stall as he steps into the aisle. Empty. So wherever he is, he probably has Frost with him. That could be good, or bad. “You haven’t happened to see Master Eris this morning, have you?”
-
Each time he fells an ethereal foe, two more rise to take its place. It takes until he is fighting off four at once for him to break a sweat, and six before he begins to feel winded. That is when he starts getting sloppy, when his blows lose some of their ferocity, where his spells start missing their mark a little more frequently, when his dodges slow down just enough to get hit every so often. Their weapons can’t hurt him, not seriously anyway. Cuts and bruises are the worst of it, what would have been lethal wounds translated into much milder analogies. Still, when one specter makes a well-placed cut under his jaw and its partner immediately slams its mace into his side, effectively knocking the wind out of him, he realizes it’s time to admit defeat.
With a wave of his hand Jonathan dispels the magic, causing the phantoms to disappear back into their stones, and quite quickly after drops to his knees in the cold dirt to wheeze for a minute. There was a time when it took all twelve of them to get him to this point, an unfortunate reminder of his advancing age.
“Ow…” By the time he can take in a full breath of air, blood from the freshest cut on his neck has started dripping into the dirt. With a shaking hand he attempts to wipe away the evidence, but more red just wells up in its place. The wizard grunts, figuring it will (hopefully) clot up on the ride home. It’s already noon, but he feels rather inclined to take his time on the way back. Maybe he’ll be able to clean himself up in the creek…
Now that the sky has tinged a grayish yellow and feeding time for the ponies is ticking ever nearer, it doesn’t make much sense for Gable to curl up in the hay again and risk sleeping through his morning duties. After watching Master Eris and Frost vanish into the misty distance, he rolls up his bedraggled sleeves (making note to mend the ripped one later) and starts the day by cleaning out Arvak’s water bucket.
“I got a hundred and sixty acres in the valley. Got a hundred and sixty acres of the best.” He sings to himself and to the animals in a deep, unrefined timbre while scrubbing. “Got an old stove there that'll cook three square and a bunk where I can lay me down to rest…”
The barn is a nice place to work. It’s drafty, sure, but far more sheltered than he’d been on the ranch or during his pilgrimage to Black Pine. And Ariathel’s words gave him a bit of hope that maybe, if he could only hold it all together, Lee might have a real home here to grow up in.
After a while, his singing dissolves into thoughtful silence and his hands seem to work without the rest of him. He carries on like this as the sun rises without a thought of breakfast. He’d had his fill—and more than—just a few hours ago. If he closed his eyes for only a moment, the liquidity zap of fresh blood seemed as real in his mouth now as it did then. The sound of Mr. Rex’s voice jolts him back into the barn, into this tired human body, and not for the first time this morning, it’s clear to Gable that he’ll need to keep a much tighter grip on the duration of his nighttime hikes.
“Sure I did. He, uh—” The crude peasant branding on his forearm (a livid shade of pink, always hot to the touch and sometimes torturously itchy,) seems particularly prominent today and he hastens to push his sleeves down before the chief of staff rounds the next corner. “He took Frost out just like you said he would. Though I hadn’t expected all that armor and the sword… He must have some kind of training ground.” It isn’t a question so much as an educated guess. With the mage’s history of war, it’s only natural he’d have a means of keeping fit. Unless of course he was just riding off to challenge a mountain cat to a duel, in which case he was a little more eccentric than Gable might have guessed.
Gable greets the redhead with a smile when he comes into view. “I told him he had something to look forward to from the kitchen, but he wasn’t interested in breakfast. He did say he’d be back for lunch, though.” Technically, the wizard had only said he hoped the surprised would keep until lunch, but Gable believes it was meant to be understood as an estimated time of arrival. Remembering something else the wizard had muttered, he smirks a bit and sets aside the mucking rake in his hands. “Do you play cards, Mr. Rex? I was thinking we ought to get a little party together tonight. You could introduce me to everyone.”
-
Huge knights and vibrant dragons loom on every side of the never-ending hall. Something sinister (a little draft or Lee's powerful imagination) animates the wall-carpets so that they ripple and sway.
The floor in the bedroom settles with a noisy pop that spurs Lee farther away from its black yawning door. His face pinches up and the tears come. Lee picks a direction that feels familiar and creeps along the edge of the hall a few steps before tripping into an all-out run of panic. The gaping darkness behind him only grows bigger and feels colder, like its clawed hands are reaching after him and no matter how fast he moves, they’re moving faster.
“Papa!” a hoarse, nearly voiceless cry of utter terror. “Papa, where are you?” He repeats the words until they become incoherent shrieks that eventually spiral into one long, frustrated, red-faced lamentation as if someone has held his bare hand over an open flame. Only a few yards from the bedroom where he began, Lee crumples onto the floor face-down in a little heap and covers his head so that the darkness can’t see him anymore.
“I got a hundred and sixty acres in the valley. Got a hundred and sixty acres of the best.” He sings to himself and to the animals in a deep, unrefined timbre while scrubbing. “Got an old stove there that'll cook three square and a bunk where I can lay me down to rest…”
The barn is a nice place to work. It’s drafty, sure, but far more sheltered than he’d been on the ranch or during his pilgrimage to Black Pine. And Ariathel’s words gave him a bit of hope that maybe, if he could only hold it all together, Lee might have a real home here to grow up in.
After a while, his singing dissolves into thoughtful silence and his hands seem to work without the rest of him. He carries on like this as the sun rises without a thought of breakfast. He’d had his fill—and more than—just a few hours ago. If he closed his eyes for only a moment, the liquidity zap of fresh blood seemed as real in his mouth now as it did then. The sound of Mr. Rex’s voice jolts him back into the barn, into this tired human body, and not for the first time this morning, it’s clear to Gable that he’ll need to keep a much tighter grip on the duration of his nighttime hikes.
“Sure I did. He, uh—” The crude peasant branding on his forearm (a livid shade of pink, always hot to the touch and sometimes torturously itchy,) seems particularly prominent today and he hastens to push his sleeves down before the chief of staff rounds the next corner. “He took Frost out just like you said he would. Though I hadn’t expected all that armor and the sword… He must have some kind of training ground.” It isn’t a question so much as an educated guess. With the mage’s history of war, it’s only natural he’d have a means of keeping fit. Unless of course he was just riding off to challenge a mountain cat to a duel, in which case he was a little more eccentric than Gable might have guessed.
Gable greets the redhead with a smile when he comes into view. “I told him he had something to look forward to from the kitchen, but he wasn’t interested in breakfast. He did say he’d be back for lunch, though.” Technically, the wizard had only said he hoped the surprised would keep until lunch, but Gable believes it was meant to be understood as an estimated time of arrival. Remembering something else the wizard had muttered, he smirks a bit and sets aside the mucking rake in his hands. “Do you play cards, Mr. Rex? I was thinking we ought to get a little party together tonight. You could introduce me to everyone.”
-
Huge knights and vibrant dragons loom on every side of the never-ending hall. Something sinister (a little draft or Lee's powerful imagination) animates the wall-carpets so that they ripple and sway.
The floor in the bedroom settles with a noisy pop that spurs Lee farther away from its black yawning door. His face pinches up and the tears come. Lee picks a direction that feels familiar and creeps along the edge of the hall a few steps before tripping into an all-out run of panic. The gaping darkness behind him only grows bigger and feels colder, like its clawed hands are reaching after him and no matter how fast he moves, they’re moving faster.
“Papa!” a hoarse, nearly voiceless cry of utter terror. “Papa, where are you?” He repeats the words until they become incoherent shrieks that eventually spiral into one long, frustrated, red-faced lamentation as if someone has held his bare hand over an open flame. Only a few yards from the bedroom where he began, Lee crumples onto the floor face-down in a little heap and covers his head so that the darkness can’t see him anymore.
Lee’s screams might be muffled by the tapestries in the corridor, but sensitive ears pick up the echoes of it nonetheless, and come to investigate. The little reddish-brown lizard, with the splotch of pale blue-green scales across his back that always made him look like someone dropped paint on him, feels compelled to investigate, and so he creeps toward the noise. It is the wrong time for screaming, and it is coming from the wrong place, too. Sometimes the man upstairs screams, but that is only rarely, and only ever at night.
What he finds is not the man upstairs, but a two-legged baby, curled up on the floor like there are monsters after it. Jasper’s tongue flicks, tasting the boy’s fear. It’s sour, and pungent, and he doesn’t like it. He scans the hallway, but can’t for the life of him figure out what has the child so afraid. He knows he isn’t the smartest. Platinum likes to remind him of that frequently. Fox-shook baby brain is one of the larger dragon’s favorite names for him, but he is only a year old, and still learning things, and so Jasper cuts himself some slack.
A minute more of pondering reminds him of a very important piece of information: Human babies can’t see in the dark. And the girl with the missing ear did not light the lamps in the hallway this morning.
Dumb two-legs and their problems.
The small pseudo dragon flits up to the lamp mounted on the wall nearest the boy, and with a little puff of flame, lights it. The light doesn’t travel very far, that’s why there are multiple lamps along the corridor, but Jasper isn’t the sort to waste energy. If the light doesn’t stop the screaming, well, then the problem is probably bigger than he can solve, and he will have to get the others involved.
-
“Of course he has.” Maddox grinds his teeth as a symphony of emotions battle for supremacy across his face. Anger. Concern. Annoyance. Hope. “No, yes, he does this every so often. Rides off into the mountains to fight ghosts until he’s completely exhausted himself. I’ve warned him before that he needs to take someone with him, just in case things get out of hand. The specters themselves can’t kill him, but I always worry that something that can might smell blood and come looking for an easy meal.”
The chief of staff shakes his head, muttering about “bloody wizards and their lack of sense”, then busies himself with helping Gable sort out the chores. It isn’t so much for the purpose of helping in and of itself as it is to serve as a distraction from their master’s impending return. The last time Jon had run off like this, he had been fine. Until the next morning, when he had made his way to breakfast with a noticeable limp. Broken bones weren’t unheard of, and were by far the worst to deal with, right after that time he had come back with a dislocated shoulder. No riding, no lifting, no laborious spell casting, and no writing unless it was magically assisted (which had the added benefit of wearing him out quicker) or transcribed for him (bless Bralthrawn for having the patience to do so, but even learning at the master’s knee, his handwriting is still atrocious). If he wasn’t sleeping, he was bored, and a bored wizard is a very dangerous thing to have on one’s hands.
“I’ve always been more for dice games than cards myself,” the redhead sighs, grateful for the distraction and change of topic. “But I’m sure we have a deck or two around somewhere. It would be a good way for you to get to know some of the other senior staff members. Some of them don’t come out of the woodwork very often, I doubt you’d get to meet them anytime soon otherwise…”
Maddox trails off, hearing the soft crunch of hooves on gravel, and looks up just in time to see Jonathan walking down the barn aisle, favoring his right side and with blood smeared across his neck. The wizard wears a tired grin, pleased he’s been able to escape his minder and burn off some energy this morning. He needs to do it more often if he wants to keep up his fitness, but slipping away gets harder each time he does it.
“Maddox. Mr. Kendall.” He nods a greeting to each of them in turn, oblivious of the wound on his neck that continues to ooze with each motion.
What he finds is not the man upstairs, but a two-legged baby, curled up on the floor like there are monsters after it. Jasper’s tongue flicks, tasting the boy’s fear. It’s sour, and pungent, and he doesn’t like it. He scans the hallway, but can’t for the life of him figure out what has the child so afraid. He knows he isn’t the smartest. Platinum likes to remind him of that frequently. Fox-shook baby brain is one of the larger dragon’s favorite names for him, but he is only a year old, and still learning things, and so Jasper cuts himself some slack.
A minute more of pondering reminds him of a very important piece of information: Human babies can’t see in the dark. And the girl with the missing ear did not light the lamps in the hallway this morning.
Dumb two-legs and their problems.
The small pseudo dragon flits up to the lamp mounted on the wall nearest the boy, and with a little puff of flame, lights it. The light doesn’t travel very far, that’s why there are multiple lamps along the corridor, but Jasper isn’t the sort to waste energy. If the light doesn’t stop the screaming, well, then the problem is probably bigger than he can solve, and he will have to get the others involved.
-
“Of course he has.” Maddox grinds his teeth as a symphony of emotions battle for supremacy across his face. Anger. Concern. Annoyance. Hope. “No, yes, he does this every so often. Rides off into the mountains to fight ghosts until he’s completely exhausted himself. I’ve warned him before that he needs to take someone with him, just in case things get out of hand. The specters themselves can’t kill him, but I always worry that something that can might smell blood and come looking for an easy meal.”
The chief of staff shakes his head, muttering about “bloody wizards and their lack of sense”, then busies himself with helping Gable sort out the chores. It isn’t so much for the purpose of helping in and of itself as it is to serve as a distraction from their master’s impending return. The last time Jon had run off like this, he had been fine. Until the next morning, when he had made his way to breakfast with a noticeable limp. Broken bones weren’t unheard of, and were by far the worst to deal with, right after that time he had come back with a dislocated shoulder. No riding, no lifting, no laborious spell casting, and no writing unless it was magically assisted (which had the added benefit of wearing him out quicker) or transcribed for him (bless Bralthrawn for having the patience to do so, but even learning at the master’s knee, his handwriting is still atrocious). If he wasn’t sleeping, he was bored, and a bored wizard is a very dangerous thing to have on one’s hands.
“I’ve always been more for dice games than cards myself,” the redhead sighs, grateful for the distraction and change of topic. “But I’m sure we have a deck or two around somewhere. It would be a good way for you to get to know some of the other senior staff members. Some of them don’t come out of the woodwork very often, I doubt you’d get to meet them anytime soon otherwise…”
Maddox trails off, hearing the soft crunch of hooves on gravel, and looks up just in time to see Jonathan walking down the barn aisle, favoring his right side and with blood smeared across his neck. The wizard wears a tired grin, pleased he’s been able to escape his minder and burn off some energy this morning. He needs to do it more often if he wants to keep up his fitness, but slipping away gets harder each time he does it.
“Maddox. Mr. Kendall.” He nods a greeting to each of them in turn, oblivious of the wound on his neck that continues to ooze with each motion.
Lee’s persistent wail gradually dies down into gasps and self-soothing whimpers, and the whimpers morph into pitiful, tuneless humming, wet sniffles… and one very big sigh. It’s exhausting to be frightened out of one’s mind.
When light flickers under the edges of his folded-up arms, Lee’s face snaps up, expecting to see Papa standing there with a candle and a warm smile. Ever since he came back home with the special mark on his arm, that’s what his pop always does: makes the bad things okay and the darkness less scary. But the hallway is still empty, as far as Lee can tell. The only difference now is the matter of one little island of safety: this pool of light shining down on his head. But how did it turn on by itself?
Tears and snot mingle and glisten on nearly every part of Lee’s face. He licks some of it away and rubs the rest on his arm and shirt while staring up at the comforting light, wondering about its existence. Then Lee’s eyes begin to adjust and he can see a dark, curly little shape staring back at him. He blinks at it.
-
“Ghosts?” Gable’s brows lift and he smiles widely, obviously impressed by all the strangeness of Black Pine’s magic. Little Hen wasn’t short of its own strangeness of course, no sir, but the weirdness it harbored was largely in its population of mutated critters. “If he won’t take one of us up there with him, Catcher would sure pluck the eyes out of anything that tried to eat him,” he muses aloud.
Gable turns with the redhead to behold their disheveled boss and gasps. “Heavens to Bertha!”
Hesitating only the half-second it takes for him to decide that hawking magical healing spit onto his employer is not the wisest path forward (even if it would be the most effective) Gable tears the sleeve off his tunic (the one that was already ripped, which fortunately covered his non-branded arm) and another swatch from the lower hem.
“Grieving saints, sir, you almost slashed your jugular… Stay still.”
The shorter piece of fabric Gable folds into quarters and uses as a pad over the wound. He instructs the wizard to hold it there while lifting the opposite arm to get it out of Gable’s way.
With the sleeve, Gable ties a diagonal sash from Master Eris’s neck wound to the crook under his lifted arm and fastens it fairly tight, creating one-sided pressure that won’t obstruct his other carotid artery or his trachea. “You can put that down, now,” he says about the arm, and the lowered position increases the pressure a little more.
“Now then.” Gable levels his gaze with the mage, which at this proximity means looking slightly downward. His tone is decisive but friendly. “I think you've been off your feed for long enough, sir, if you don't mind my saying, and a gash like that won't mend on an empty stomach. Besides, Miss Ariathel has something special for you and I'm sure it would hurt her feelings if…” Concern for someone other than the wizard darkens Gable’s features as he trails off. Glancing anxiously at Frost and then Maddox and finally the direction of the house, he wears the expression of a man who’s just woken up to find his house on fire.
When light flickers under the edges of his folded-up arms, Lee’s face snaps up, expecting to see Papa standing there with a candle and a warm smile. Ever since he came back home with the special mark on his arm, that’s what his pop always does: makes the bad things okay and the darkness less scary. But the hallway is still empty, as far as Lee can tell. The only difference now is the matter of one little island of safety: this pool of light shining down on his head. But how did it turn on by itself?
Tears and snot mingle and glisten on nearly every part of Lee’s face. He licks some of it away and rubs the rest on his arm and shirt while staring up at the comforting light, wondering about its existence. Then Lee’s eyes begin to adjust and he can see a dark, curly little shape staring back at him. He blinks at it.
-
“Ghosts?” Gable’s brows lift and he smiles widely, obviously impressed by all the strangeness of Black Pine’s magic. Little Hen wasn’t short of its own strangeness of course, no sir, but the weirdness it harbored was largely in its population of mutated critters. “If he won’t take one of us up there with him, Catcher would sure pluck the eyes out of anything that tried to eat him,” he muses aloud.
Gable turns with the redhead to behold their disheveled boss and gasps. “Heavens to Bertha!”
Hesitating only the half-second it takes for him to decide that hawking magical healing spit onto his employer is not the wisest path forward (even if it would be the most effective) Gable tears the sleeve off his tunic (the one that was already ripped, which fortunately covered his non-branded arm) and another swatch from the lower hem.
“Grieving saints, sir, you almost slashed your jugular… Stay still.”
The shorter piece of fabric Gable folds into quarters and uses as a pad over the wound. He instructs the wizard to hold it there while lifting the opposite arm to get it out of Gable’s way.
With the sleeve, Gable ties a diagonal sash from Master Eris’s neck wound to the crook under his lifted arm and fastens it fairly tight, creating one-sided pressure that won’t obstruct his other carotid artery or his trachea. “You can put that down, now,” he says about the arm, and the lowered position increases the pressure a little more.
“Now then.” Gable levels his gaze with the mage, which at this proximity means looking slightly downward. His tone is decisive but friendly. “I think you've been off your feed for long enough, sir, if you don't mind my saying, and a gash like that won't mend on an empty stomach. Besides, Miss Ariathel has something special for you and I'm sure it would hurt her feelings if…” Concern for someone other than the wizard darkens Gable’s features as he trails off. Glancing anxiously at Frost and then Maddox and finally the direction of the house, he wears the expression of a man who’s just woken up to find his house on fire.
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