Jon gives a quiet chuckle at the toddler’s interjection, but otherwise continues strumming quietly. He doesn’t want to damage this fragile truce he seems to have reached with Lee by taking credit for the lad’s budding musical talent. Until this moment he’s let Gable be as well, content to just exist in the same space as the two Kendall’s as they both recover from their respective traumas, even with Gable throwing up across the room. He didn’t seem distressed at the time, and so he figured rest and quiet would be the best answer to things.
“It’s a feeling, I suppose.” The wizard says, finally setting aside his instrument. He makes sure it’s still within arms reach if Lee wants to keep messing with it. He already gave the boy a kind but stern warning to be careful with it, and it isn’t of any great value on its own anyway. With a bit of a groan, he gets to his feet and plods over to the basket of goodies that the toddler has been periodically raiding during their wait. Water canteen in hand, he makes his way over to Gable, pausing just briefly to wave his hand and cause the puddle of half-digested sausage to disappear.
“You’ve experienced the beginnings of it already, when you came into the library with your head full of noise that you couldn’t hear, but sensed nonetheless. The hum of magic around a werebeast just before they turn is… similar, if more subtle. The specifics are different for everyone, but once you encounter it, you’ll never forget it. For me personally, it was as if you smelled strongly of wet fur and fresh blood. There’s a sour note to it, like the pus of an infection.”
This he explains as he drops to the floor near Gable’s head, just out of arm’s reach, but holds the canteen out to him to make up for the distance. He’s playing things safe for now. There’s an ache in his arm that’s been growing steadily worse as the afternoon has progressed, something that burns and warns that he’s done too much too soon. But that’s in the past. At least the light magic fortifying the skin of his fingertips has kept them from bleeding, though he almost forgot to cast it. As it stands his fingers are swollen and red, out of practice and callous-free from so long without handling the mandolin. He rubs his forearm through the splint bandages before setting it to rest in his lap.
“It’s a feeling, I suppose.” The wizard says, finally setting aside his instrument. He makes sure it’s still within arms reach if Lee wants to keep messing with it. He already gave the boy a kind but stern warning to be careful with it, and it isn’t of any great value on its own anyway. With a bit of a groan, he gets to his feet and plods over to the basket of goodies that the toddler has been periodically raiding during their wait. Water canteen in hand, he makes his way over to Gable, pausing just briefly to wave his hand and cause the puddle of half-digested sausage to disappear.
“You’ve experienced the beginnings of it already, when you came into the library with your head full of noise that you couldn’t hear, but sensed nonetheless. The hum of magic around a werebeast just before they turn is… similar, if more subtle. The specifics are different for everyone, but once you encounter it, you’ll never forget it. For me personally, it was as if you smelled strongly of wet fur and fresh blood. There’s a sour note to it, like the pus of an infection.”
This he explains as he drops to the floor near Gable’s head, just out of arm’s reach, but holds the canteen out to him to make up for the distance. He’s playing things safe for now. There’s an ache in his arm that’s been growing steadily worse as the afternoon has progressed, something that burns and warns that he’s done too much too soon. But that’s in the past. At least the light magic fortifying the skin of his fingertips has kept them from bleeding, though he almost forgot to cast it. As it stands his fingers are swollen and red, out of practice and callous-free from so long without handling the mandolin. He rubs his forearm through the splint bandages before setting it to rest in his lap.
It takes no effort at all for Gable to conceptualize the wizard’s description of what it’s like to sense a lycanthrope; he can identify the odors of sweaty fur and blistering infection right now.
His eyes never lift to the Master’s face while the man stands, discards the vomit, and offers water. He accepts the canteen with a silent nod of thanks, very careful not to even brush fingertips with the wizard. After emptying the flask of its contents, Gable swishes the last sip until his saliva is well mixed with the water, then dribbles it through rounded lips over the branding. The coarse shape hisses and steams, crackling furiously like the surface of a hot pan and frothing out a pungent white foam that turns gray, like the dross of silver. After wiping away as much of it as he can with his finger (jaw muscles clenched) Gable lifts his forearm to his mouth as if to suck the venom from a snake bite. His eyes water as his tongue burns against his flesh.
When Gable finishes cleaning the wound, the ugly L seals itself with another layer of scar tissue, but continues to glow with irritation. It takes the usual amount of self-control not to scratch it until it bleeds again.
It’s been a minute since the wizard spoke. Gentle, discordant notes fill the silence for them and as much as Gable hates that his son is here with him, seeing him like this, he’s also grateful for his presence.
Finally, keeping his eyes firmly on his own hands, he asks, “How could you know before I did?” The wizard had already explained as much, in a way, so he tries to ask himself what he really means: “That is, it’s never happened like that before. I’ve always been able to control it, to start it and end it whenever I wanted. …Is this just another symptom of being near you?” His tone sharpens then. The desire to accuse, without the evidence to be confident enough to say it outright. It’s frustrating not to understand how any of this mystic stuff works, especially when he feels so outmatched by someone who is more than familiar with it.
His eyes never lift to the Master’s face while the man stands, discards the vomit, and offers water. He accepts the canteen with a silent nod of thanks, very careful not to even brush fingertips with the wizard. After emptying the flask of its contents, Gable swishes the last sip until his saliva is well mixed with the water, then dribbles it through rounded lips over the branding. The coarse shape hisses and steams, crackling furiously like the surface of a hot pan and frothing out a pungent white foam that turns gray, like the dross of silver. After wiping away as much of it as he can with his finger (jaw muscles clenched) Gable lifts his forearm to his mouth as if to suck the venom from a snake bite. His eyes water as his tongue burns against his flesh.
When Gable finishes cleaning the wound, the ugly L seals itself with another layer of scar tissue, but continues to glow with irritation. It takes the usual amount of self-control not to scratch it until it bleeds again.
It’s been a minute since the wizard spoke. Gentle, discordant notes fill the silence for them and as much as Gable hates that his son is here with him, seeing him like this, he’s also grateful for his presence.
Finally, keeping his eyes firmly on his own hands, he asks, “How could you know before I did?” The wizard had already explained as much, in a way, so he tries to ask himself what he really means: “That is, it’s never happened like that before. I’ve always been able to control it, to start it and end it whenever I wanted. …Is this just another symptom of being near you?” His tone sharpens then. The desire to accuse, without the evidence to be confident enough to say it outright. It’s frustrating not to understand how any of this mystic stuff works, especially when he feels so outmatched by someone who is more than familiar with it.
Jonathan watches intently while Gable tends to his wound with… saliva. To say it was unexpected would have been an understatement, but it does bring to mind something he’s read quite recently. And that itself is quite enlightening, especially in combination with what the man says next.
“Hmm. Well… I suppose it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility.” The wizard tilts his head thoughtfully at the question. “I wouldn’t count it as likely though. If I myself was a skin-changer, that might be more plausible, but I regret to inform that is not the case. More likely, and I’m by no means an expert here but I have been doing some reading over the past few days, you’ve contracted multiple forms of lycanthropy. Especially if you’ve been able to transform before and have a decent degree of control over it, as you say, and if that wound on your arm means what I think it does. There are a few, rare forms that are hereditary, which is probably what you are used to, but most are spread through infected bites. At least, those are the ones that have been the most thoroughly studied.”
Perhaps a bit spitefully, he waves his bandaged arm around for emphasis on the last two sentences. It makes the ache flare, and so he puts it back in his lap not long after. He's still quite convinced that Gable hadn't meant to hurt him, but it had happened nonetheless, and as such, couldn't just be ignored.
"Whatever caused the lunar reaction must have been relatively recently acquired, if this is the first time you're encountering it." Jon grunts and gets back up, shuffling back over to where his other things are to grab the book he brought, and flips through it while he pads around the room. "There are tests that can be run, spells and alchemical processes, to arrive at a more specific answer, but there is little variation in the treatment of such combination curses. The same ritual and potion I described to you earlier would treat any number of infectious lycanthropic conditions. That is, if being rid of it is something you want."
The wizard freezes mid-step at the pulse of insistence he gets from Blackstaff, her needling returning despite the distance between them. She knows what they're discussing, and she doesn't like where the conversation is going.
"Would you, er, like some salve for that?" He asks, gesturing vaguely to the irritated skin on Gable's arm in an attempt to redirect the conversation.
“Hmm. Well… I suppose it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility.” The wizard tilts his head thoughtfully at the question. “I wouldn’t count it as likely though. If I myself was a skin-changer, that might be more plausible, but I regret to inform that is not the case. More likely, and I’m by no means an expert here but I have been doing some reading over the past few days, you’ve contracted multiple forms of lycanthropy. Especially if you’ve been able to transform before and have a decent degree of control over it, as you say, and if that wound on your arm means what I think it does. There are a few, rare forms that are hereditary, which is probably what you are used to, but most are spread through infected bites. At least, those are the ones that have been the most thoroughly studied.”
Perhaps a bit spitefully, he waves his bandaged arm around for emphasis on the last two sentences. It makes the ache flare, and so he puts it back in his lap not long after. He's still quite convinced that Gable hadn't meant to hurt him, but it had happened nonetheless, and as such, couldn't just be ignored.
"Whatever caused the lunar reaction must have been relatively recently acquired, if this is the first time you're encountering it." Jon grunts and gets back up, shuffling back over to where his other things are to grab the book he brought, and flips through it while he pads around the room. "There are tests that can be run, spells and alchemical processes, to arrive at a more specific answer, but there is little variation in the treatment of such combination curses. The same ritual and potion I described to you earlier would treat any number of infectious lycanthropic conditions. That is, if being rid of it is something you want."
The wizard freezes mid-step at the pulse of insistence he gets from Blackstaff, her needling returning despite the distance between them. She knows what they're discussing, and she doesn't like where the conversation is going.
"Would you, er, like some salve for that?" He asks, gesturing vaguely to the irritated skin on Gable's arm in an attempt to redirect the conversation.
Hereditary. A stab of guilt pierces Gable with the word.
“My father and brother both have it,” he admits in agreement. “That’s why we can mindspeak. But I used to be… smaller. Normal-looking.” Not too long ago, Gable could have blended in with a pack of natural animals, if he wanted to—and if they let him. Forest creatures kept their distance to observe him with respect, but they didn’t abandon their activities just because he was present; there was community and harmony then. And if he forgot himself and strayed too close to a settlement, maybe some farmer who would have otherwise greeted him with a hello would shake a broom or bang pots and pans, but they wouldn’t try to kill him on sight, hunt him down, hold him to the ground, burn his skin… call him mongrel.
Gable’s eyes latch onto the bandages and follow back and forth through the emphatic gestures. No one deserves to call him by that filthy word more than Master Eris.
With a long sigh and another scrub to his face, Gable privately admits he doesn’t know what he wants. If the ritual and potion could cure him without removing that other half of his identity entirely… But if it can’t, then he knows it will feel like death. At least for a while. Maybe forever. It’s impossible to know the size of the void such a big loss would leave behind.
Looking up but ignoring the change of subject, he murmurs, “I don’t want to hurt anyone, sir.” It’s a statement, but also a question, seeking the wizard’s wisdom for some guidance. But before he can let Master Eris make that choice for him, before they even leave this ugly room, he has to understand something. He has to look into this man’s eyes and get a feel of who he really is. Gable swallows, his own eyes soft and imploring, afraid of the answer he's going to uncover. For the toddler’s sake, and because it’s too awful to hear himself say it, he whispers: “Will you really kill me if I don’t do it?”
“My father and brother both have it,” he admits in agreement. “That’s why we can mindspeak. But I used to be… smaller. Normal-looking.” Not too long ago, Gable could have blended in with a pack of natural animals, if he wanted to—and if they let him. Forest creatures kept their distance to observe him with respect, but they didn’t abandon their activities just because he was present; there was community and harmony then. And if he forgot himself and strayed too close to a settlement, maybe some farmer who would have otherwise greeted him with a hello would shake a broom or bang pots and pans, but they wouldn’t try to kill him on sight, hunt him down, hold him to the ground, burn his skin… call him mongrel.
Gable’s eyes latch onto the bandages and follow back and forth through the emphatic gestures. No one deserves to call him by that filthy word more than Master Eris.
With a long sigh and another scrub to his face, Gable privately admits he doesn’t know what he wants. If the ritual and potion could cure him without removing that other half of his identity entirely… But if it can’t, then he knows it will feel like death. At least for a while. Maybe forever. It’s impossible to know the size of the void such a big loss would leave behind.
Looking up but ignoring the change of subject, he murmurs, “I don’t want to hurt anyone, sir.” It’s a statement, but also a question, seeking the wizard’s wisdom for some guidance. But before he can let Master Eris make that choice for him, before they even leave this ugly room, he has to understand something. He has to look into this man’s eyes and get a feel of who he really is. Gable swallows, his own eyes soft and imploring, afraid of the answer he's going to uncover. For the toddler’s sake, and because it’s too awful to hear himself say it, he whispers: “Will you really kill me if I don’t do it?”
“That makes an unfortunate amount of sense.” The wizard releases a long, contemplative sigh. To entirely disregard the possibility that Gable’s abilities could be the result of hereditary lycanthropy the moment he realized the man could change his shape would have been foolish to say the least. He’s irritated that the man kept this information from him, even after he had explicitly asked for him to disclose what he could about his ancestry and any arcane abilities associated with it, though he tries not to let it show. The situation is tense enough as it is.
But what options did they have? If Gable could keep himself under control with one form of lycanthropy but not both, then ideally they should only have to treat the one. But if treating the infectious disease also cured what the man had inherited? That would fundamentally change who he was. And that was needlessly cruel. But if they could learn to contain his acquired wolf? That might just work. Let Gable retain his identity, to the degree that he could, without endangering others. Whatever they decided to do, they would have to get to work on it quickly, though: more than likely, they’ll end up in this same situation again in a little less than four weeks time.
“I don’t want you to hurt anyone either, Mr. Kendall.” The wizard drops the book back down next to Lee, but continues to pace, occasionally pausing to clean up some rubble or magic away a stain or a puddle. “But I think we can both agree that what’s happened over the last few days is hardly the ideal situation. You are my employee, not my prisoner. Keeping you down here was never my first choice, but as I’ve stated before, you are one of many people I am charged with protecting. Letting you have run of the estate after you had just snapped my arm would not have been the wisest decision, I feel. Yet I bring you to a secure room for the purposes of keeping everyone safe, and your moon-addled brain decides that bashing itself out against the wall is the best course of action.”
Jon finally stops his pacing not too far from Gable, his hands initially held gingerly behind his back before he sighs and rubs his broken arm again, continuing on a voice barely above a whisper. “Much as any other archmage might demand to see you hang from a tree for… this… I don’t see how that benefits anyone involved. I won’t kill you unless I have to, Mr. Kendall. That being said, I am also hesitant to let you leave my property knowing that you do not have full control over yourself. I won’t force you to seek a cure, but I would ask that you remain here until you are either cured or have demonstrated that you are not a danger to yourself or those around you.”
But what options did they have? If Gable could keep himself under control with one form of lycanthropy but not both, then ideally they should only have to treat the one. But if treating the infectious disease also cured what the man had inherited? That would fundamentally change who he was. And that was needlessly cruel. But if they could learn to contain his acquired wolf? That might just work. Let Gable retain his identity, to the degree that he could, without endangering others. Whatever they decided to do, they would have to get to work on it quickly, though: more than likely, they’ll end up in this same situation again in a little less than four weeks time.
“I don’t want you to hurt anyone either, Mr. Kendall.” The wizard drops the book back down next to Lee, but continues to pace, occasionally pausing to clean up some rubble or magic away a stain or a puddle. “But I think we can both agree that what’s happened over the last few days is hardly the ideal situation. You are my employee, not my prisoner. Keeping you down here was never my first choice, but as I’ve stated before, you are one of many people I am charged with protecting. Letting you have run of the estate after you had just snapped my arm would not have been the wisest decision, I feel. Yet I bring you to a secure room for the purposes of keeping everyone safe, and your moon-addled brain decides that bashing itself out against the wall is the best course of action.”
Jon finally stops his pacing not too far from Gable, his hands initially held gingerly behind his back before he sighs and rubs his broken arm again, continuing on a voice barely above a whisper. “Much as any other archmage might demand to see you hang from a tree for… this… I don’t see how that benefits anyone involved. I won’t kill you unless I have to, Mr. Kendall. That being said, I am also hesitant to let you leave my property knowing that you do not have full control over yourself. I won’t force you to seek a cure, but I would ask that you remain here until you are either cured or have demonstrated that you are not a danger to yourself or those around you.”
During his master's lecture, Gable’s shoulders droop and he stares at the floor in shame, unknowingly displaying the attributes of a reprimanded canine. All that's missing is the wilted ears. Not only had he been violent, but stupid, too. And now he understands a little better why the wizard had drugged him: not to control, but to calm.
The noise of a small stream of water hitting thin metal draws his attention to Lee, who is tinkling into the dented pail. Gable's lips pull to the side briefly, in something that might be a smile or a grimace. Or both. The sooner they can all get out of this hole, the better.
After clarifying for certain whether the wizard means he’ll have to stay ‘here’ as in this room or ‘here’ as in allowing him to continue to work on the top side until he needs to be contained again, Gable tilts his head for a long moment and stares off into middle distance. Finally, his eyes brighten a little, although he still isn’t smiling. It’s very, very cautious optimism.
"If bitin's the worst that can happen, why can't we just muzzle him? I mean, me. And if you start putting it on regularly now, surely I can't be too stormed up at you when the other time comes. I'll understand by then, even if I've got moon fever. Don't you think?" Gable’s eyes move back to the wizard’s face, but he can’t hold his gaze for long; he knows that a little more honestly would have saved the man a broken arm, Lee a couple nights of terror, and himself a concussion. He doesn’t deserve to be allowed to haggle and compromise his way out of his stone box future.
"Parts of me are the same,” he insists anyway. “I recognized you. I was happy you were there, right up until the air went away and Lee got scared…" Then he recalls the short time directly before the change, when the wizard had first confronted him. He’d gotten angry then, too. But maybe it was the guilt boiling up, or the wolf getting upset; he honestly didn’t know, but he had been able to reel it back in then, and the rest went smooth as butter for a blissful moment.
Gable’s gaze drops to the wizard’s arm, which obviously bothers him, since he rubs it and coddles it close to his body. "I'm sorry,” Gable murmurs. “Have you treated yourself yet? Don’t need two of us running around... One idiot is enough.” An uneasy attempt to lighten the mood. But the thought makes him glance over at Lee again.
The noise of a small stream of water hitting thin metal draws his attention to Lee, who is tinkling into the dented pail. Gable's lips pull to the side briefly, in something that might be a smile or a grimace. Or both. The sooner they can all get out of this hole, the better.
After clarifying for certain whether the wizard means he’ll have to stay ‘here’ as in this room or ‘here’ as in allowing him to continue to work on the top side until he needs to be contained again, Gable tilts his head for a long moment and stares off into middle distance. Finally, his eyes brighten a little, although he still isn’t smiling. It’s very, very cautious optimism.
"If bitin's the worst that can happen, why can't we just muzzle him? I mean, me. And if you start putting it on regularly now, surely I can't be too stormed up at you when the other time comes. I'll understand by then, even if I've got moon fever. Don't you think?" Gable’s eyes move back to the wizard’s face, but he can’t hold his gaze for long; he knows that a little more honestly would have saved the man a broken arm, Lee a couple nights of terror, and himself a concussion. He doesn’t deserve to be allowed to haggle and compromise his way out of his stone box future.
"Parts of me are the same,” he insists anyway. “I recognized you. I was happy you were there, right up until the air went away and Lee got scared…" Then he recalls the short time directly before the change, when the wizard had first confronted him. He’d gotten angry then, too. But maybe it was the guilt boiling up, or the wolf getting upset; he honestly didn’t know, but he had been able to reel it back in then, and the rest went smooth as butter for a blissful moment.
Gable’s gaze drops to the wizard’s arm, which obviously bothers him, since he rubs it and coddles it close to his body. "I'm sorry,” Gable murmurs. “Have you treated yourself yet? Don’t need two of us running around... One idiot is enough.” An uneasy attempt to lighten the mood. But the thought makes him glance over at Lee again.
The wizard's optimism is even more cautious than Gable's, but it's still there. The moon seemed to have scrambled the man-wolf's brains enough that, at least from Jon's perspective, he hadn't even recognized him. Higher thinking was reduced to run, play, dig, BITE, leaving no room for recognition of friend or foe or authority.
"I'm willing to try just about anything," he sighs, trying to keep from sounding defeated already. "You know yourself better than I, so if you think you'll be able to bear a muzzle for one night without ripping it off, I'm willing to give it a try. I... there is a rather pertinent figure of authority who is presently breathing down the back of my neck to ensure we don't run a risk of repeating this month's events."
"We'll have to have it made fairly quickly, knowing that you've already been down here an extra few days. And I... ugh, as much as I hate to say this, putting some distance between you and the rest of the household might be in everyone's best interests. Confinement, as effective as it is on the one hand, seems to be entirely counterproductive in helping you keep ahold of your faculties, and so I'd like to avoid that if we can. I would also like to avoid tearing up the landscaping. As small a thing it is, Bralthrawn was not happy with the ornamental maple sapling you so delicately ripped out of the ground for me."
A small part of Jon feels almost a little warm at hearing that the man was happy to see him, even in wolf form. It does assuage some of his worries about just how much awareness he has with four legs and a tail... and very large teeth. It also cements in his mind the theory that Gable hadn't actually been trying to hurt him, not intentionally, at least. It was just the disease driving him to do what it did.
"I have not." The wizard admits almost somberly, giving his arm one last rub before returning his hands to their previous position behind his back. Maddox is right, the thing needs to be in a sling, but right now he can't bring himself to bother: Nothing says 'authority figure' like a barefooted old man with his arm in a sling. Whether it's due to pride or a strategic ploy to display strength that might or might not be there is up for debate. Either way, the bare feet don't help his defense. "I wanted to wait until you were back in your own skin, if I could. No point treating an infection if there's a high chance I'll be exposed again the next day. But now that you're more or less in control of yourself again, I suppose I've run out of reasons to procrastinate on it."
Jon surveys the room for a minute, looking over the rubble that's left and the things he's brought with him. And Lee. Bless him, at least he knew what the bucket was for.
"Now, if you're awake enough to finish getting dressed, I think it's high time I follow through with that promise of good food I made to you. It should be getting close to supper time in an hour or two. Just enough time for a bath and a bit of fresh air beforehand, hm?"
"I'm willing to try just about anything," he sighs, trying to keep from sounding defeated already. "You know yourself better than I, so if you think you'll be able to bear a muzzle for one night without ripping it off, I'm willing to give it a try. I... there is a rather pertinent figure of authority who is presently breathing down the back of my neck to ensure we don't run a risk of repeating this month's events."
"We'll have to have it made fairly quickly, knowing that you've already been down here an extra few days. And I... ugh, as much as I hate to say this, putting some distance between you and the rest of the household might be in everyone's best interests. Confinement, as effective as it is on the one hand, seems to be entirely counterproductive in helping you keep ahold of your faculties, and so I'd like to avoid that if we can. I would also like to avoid tearing up the landscaping. As small a thing it is, Bralthrawn was not happy with the ornamental maple sapling you so delicately ripped out of the ground for me."
A small part of Jon feels almost a little warm at hearing that the man was happy to see him, even in wolf form. It does assuage some of his worries about just how much awareness he has with four legs and a tail... and very large teeth. It also cements in his mind the theory that Gable hadn't actually been trying to hurt him, not intentionally, at least. It was just the disease driving him to do what it did.
"I have not." The wizard admits almost somberly, giving his arm one last rub before returning his hands to their previous position behind his back. Maddox is right, the thing needs to be in a sling, but right now he can't bring himself to bother: Nothing says 'authority figure' like a barefooted old man with his arm in a sling. Whether it's due to pride or a strategic ploy to display strength that might or might not be there is up for debate. Either way, the bare feet don't help his defense. "I wanted to wait until you were back in your own skin, if I could. No point treating an infection if there's a high chance I'll be exposed again the next day. But now that you're more or less in control of yourself again, I suppose I've run out of reasons to procrastinate on it."
Jon surveys the room for a minute, looking over the rubble that's left and the things he's brought with him. And Lee. Bless him, at least he knew what the bucket was for.
"Now, if you're awake enough to finish getting dressed, I think it's high time I follow through with that promise of good food I made to you. It should be getting close to supper time in an hour or two. Just enough time for a bath and a bit of fresh air beforehand, hm?"
Gable can’t promise he won’t rip the muzzle away when the urges take over again and good sense leaves him, but he can promise to try and be good. He feels especially motivated to do so when he hears that some higher-up is watching them—and by inference, could make the Master’s life quite difficult if this happens again. Was Master Eris already covering for him? Saving his life by standing between Gable and this figure of authority who’d want to see him beheaded? Hanged?
The taste of sweet maple bark and a zing of playful antics swirls to mind, as clear yet as distant as a vivid dream. Sheepishly Gable mutters, “Seemed like a pretty good gift at the time.” He can recall feeling like the most exciting and entertaining friend known to man when he’d dragged that sapling to the Master’s feet, intending to play with him. Now he just cringes. Two more victims: the tree and the gardener. He makes a note to meet Bralthrawn as soon and as far away from the next moon as he can.
As for the muzzle, “Mr. Rex said you have a metalsmith in town. If he’s discreet…” But who can be trusted? Maybe they could find some way to sell it to him as if the measurements were taken for one of the horses... Gable could even put the accessory on Revyn the days he isn’t wearing it himself. The fond, teasing thought would make him smile, but it doesn’t. He just sighs. “Otherwise, I can make it out of leather. Stitch it up good and tough.” Honestly the flexibility and relative softness of leather sounds more appealing to him, and probably less likely to irritate his irrational counterpart, but he’ll go as far with the precautions as the wizard wants to take them.
“No bath!” Lee argues from behind the big green book filled with pictures of Papa when he’s hairy.
“Yessir. Thank you.” Reddening as he realizes he’s only had one leg in his pants and the slim modesty afforded to him by the blanket while talking to the wizard, Gable nods and does his best to pull the pants on as quickly as he can. When he’s covered up and on two feet, he finds the tunic a short distance from the basket of snacks. More ways the wizard has been disproportionately kind.
“You said before, in the library, how you don’t usually have the makings of the cure on hand. If you haven’t got hold of them yet, maybe… you could get enough for two?” Seeing his father back in good working condition, Lee abandons the book, the mandolin, and even his half-eaten apple to walk over and lift his arms to be held. Gable obliges and gives the boy a gentle kiss on the forehead. He finishes by adding to the wizard, “If the muzzle doesn’t work, I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I’ll just hate him.”
“Dislike,” Lee corrects. It’s mean to hate anybody.
The taste of sweet maple bark and a zing of playful antics swirls to mind, as clear yet as distant as a vivid dream. Sheepishly Gable mutters, “Seemed like a pretty good gift at the time.” He can recall feeling like the most exciting and entertaining friend known to man when he’d dragged that sapling to the Master’s feet, intending to play with him. Now he just cringes. Two more victims: the tree and the gardener. He makes a note to meet Bralthrawn as soon and as far away from the next moon as he can.
As for the muzzle, “Mr. Rex said you have a metalsmith in town. If he’s discreet…” But who can be trusted? Maybe they could find some way to sell it to him as if the measurements were taken for one of the horses... Gable could even put the accessory on Revyn the days he isn’t wearing it himself. The fond, teasing thought would make him smile, but it doesn’t. He just sighs. “Otherwise, I can make it out of leather. Stitch it up good and tough.” Honestly the flexibility and relative softness of leather sounds more appealing to him, and probably less likely to irritate his irrational counterpart, but he’ll go as far with the precautions as the wizard wants to take them.
“No bath!” Lee argues from behind the big green book filled with pictures of Papa when he’s hairy.
“Yessir. Thank you.” Reddening as he realizes he’s only had one leg in his pants and the slim modesty afforded to him by the blanket while talking to the wizard, Gable nods and does his best to pull the pants on as quickly as he can. When he’s covered up and on two feet, he finds the tunic a short distance from the basket of snacks. More ways the wizard has been disproportionately kind.
“You said before, in the library, how you don’t usually have the makings of the cure on hand. If you haven’t got hold of them yet, maybe… you could get enough for two?” Seeing his father back in good working condition, Lee abandons the book, the mandolin, and even his half-eaten apple to walk over and lift his arms to be held. Gable obliges and gives the boy a gentle kiss on the forehead. He finishes by adding to the wizard, “If the muzzle doesn’t work, I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I’ll just hate him.”
“Dislike,” Lee corrects. It’s mean to hate anybody.
“Mordecai has done enough odd projects for me that I don’t think he’d be too put off by the idea of forging you a muzzle.” Jon chuckles as he gathers up everything that isn’t trash into the basket while Gable finishes dressing himself. “I doubt he’d go starting rumors if that’s your concern. My one reservation about working with him on this is his tendency toward… perfectionism? That’s probably the best term for it. It may take him some time to complete the device, especially if he needs to perform multiple adjustments… we can head into town tomorrow once the horses are shod and see if that’s something he’d be willing to do. In the interim, leather may be a viable alternative.”
The wizard can’t help but smirk, hearing Lee’s protest. Maybe he’ll have to show the boy how much fun bathing can be when the water isn’t contained to a tub or a bucket? Feels much more like swimming when done outdoors, and that’s far more pleasant than a washroom. Besides, with the runes inscribed on the stones lining the swimming hole keeping the water nice and warm year-round? It’s almost no contest. In short: He can certainly understand the lad’s aversion to baths. At least proper baths.
“It’s true, I don’t.” Jon sighs and returns his gaze to Gable once the man is clothed and holding his child. “The alchemical portion is difficult to make, and I don’t typically handle werewolves on a daily basis, if you catch my meaning. So I only have it on hand if I’m expecting to be exposed. The ritual alone can clear a wound of the infection if caught early enough, which is what I will probably spend tonight doing... But as it so happens, I've already written to one of my colleagues and requested a handful of vials of the curative. Enough for a full course of treatment, and extras. Initially I thought it best to be prepared in case something happened, after hearing the story of your friend, but, well, we'll see how things go now that things are out in the open."
He really hopes Gable doesn't have any more secrets to keep from him.
Jon makes one more pass of the room, collecting up the book and his mandolin in the basket before offering his hand to Gable. Everything else can be cleaned up later, preferably with a decently strong fire spell and something to suck away the ash into another dimension. Barring that, a shovel and several wheelbarrows.
"Now, let's get out and see some sun, shall we?"
The wizard can’t help but smirk, hearing Lee’s protest. Maybe he’ll have to show the boy how much fun bathing can be when the water isn’t contained to a tub or a bucket? Feels much more like swimming when done outdoors, and that’s far more pleasant than a washroom. Besides, with the runes inscribed on the stones lining the swimming hole keeping the water nice and warm year-round? It’s almost no contest. In short: He can certainly understand the lad’s aversion to baths. At least proper baths.
“It’s true, I don’t.” Jon sighs and returns his gaze to Gable once the man is clothed and holding his child. “The alchemical portion is difficult to make, and I don’t typically handle werewolves on a daily basis, if you catch my meaning. So I only have it on hand if I’m expecting to be exposed. The ritual alone can clear a wound of the infection if caught early enough, which is what I will probably spend tonight doing... But as it so happens, I've already written to one of my colleagues and requested a handful of vials of the curative. Enough for a full course of treatment, and extras. Initially I thought it best to be prepared in case something happened, after hearing the story of your friend, but, well, we'll see how things go now that things are out in the open."
He really hopes Gable doesn't have any more secrets to keep from him.
Jon makes one more pass of the room, collecting up the book and his mandolin in the basket before offering his hand to Gable. Everything else can be cleaned up later, preferably with a decently strong fire spell and something to suck away the ash into another dimension. Barring that, a shovel and several wheelbarrows.
"Now, let's get out and see some sun, shall we?"
Lee wriggles from his father’s arms the moment they breach into the big, wide world again, but Gable shuts his eyes and spends the first minute of his new birth standing very still. Sunlight kisses his face as if she missed him as deeply as he missed her; fresh, wild air ruffles its fingers through his hair; coarse pebbles and earth delight the pads of his bare feet. Aware that they’ll soon be back in the house again, into another (if far more comfortable) form of confinement, Gable very nearly sinks onto his knees to press his face into the ground to store up more of that loamy scent into his heart. But he contains himself for the sake of his master’s wariness, only curling his toes and feeling the grass between them.
To Gable’s shame, washing up before dinner feels loathsome. It would be natural to be disgusted with himself for smelling sour and greasy, and he is, but ending the bath without rolling in some pine needles and racing madly in the wind leaves a distinct impression of something missing, like stepping down and expecting an extra stair but touching the floor instead. Lee is not very fond of his bath, either. Gable has to wonder, with a pang of dread, if their time spent on the road left a lasting impression on the boy. Or worse. If he’s inherited the shifting bones and ache for woods, too.
The Kendalls only attend dinner in the hall with the rest of the household because Master Eris had indicated he’d be there, too. Perhaps to keep an eye on Gable to make sure there weren’t any lingering effects from the drugs or the moon. But Gable indeed keeps full command over his body, and mostly over his mind, though it wanders from prairie to mountain to small wooden spoons to rocking horses—then to Alice. The hatred in her heart, in her eyes. In all their eyes.
How long does he have until the strangers at the table look the same way, too?
-
The barn is awash in dust and smells the next morning: leather soap, rug soap, the cattle-like musk of tack freshly oiled with neatsfoot. What will not be found in the barn is one ounce of manure, nor a cobweb, nor a single crusty saddle pad, nor any bucket or brush out of place. Not Buddy and the mares nor Arvak, either, who have all been turned out to make room for the white tornado that serves as their stablemanster. Blankets hang on a line that runs from the barn to a tree, freshly beaten and swaying in the bright, crisp air like flags on a proud ship. One of the shutters had been drooping; it now stands perfectly straight on its hinges. The door no longer squeals when it rolls open and shut.
Gable’s hostile takeover of the barn is not an attempt to win favor (who likes a bootlicker?) or even to make a right from a wrong (impossible) but rather an expression of aggressive, mandatory catharsis. Silently and determinedly clearing away the muck and mire of the past week, past month, past year, the sensation is a fresh leaf—and the result is sparkling stalls.
By late morning, the majority of the dust has billowed forcefully out of the barn’s windows and doors, helped along by a friendly cross-breeze. Frost is tied to the metal hoop mounted on the barn aisle while his room is given the same thorough demolition and reconstruction as the rest of the house. Lee sits on a tall stool nearby and keeps the stallion company by orating the entire history of the pine family from start to finish which, considering none of it is told in a linear fashion, has kept the pair busy for the better part of an hour so far.
Gable is dressed in only his pants and a raggedy blue handkerchief tied around his nose and mouth like some kind of bandit in disguise; he runs quite warm naturally and there's no use in wearing sleeves to cover the branding, now that Master Eris has seen it at its worst.
Gable's body moves within the confines of Frost's stall, but his mind is elsewhere. The garden. The room. The bite. The party. His home.
His father.
Allerick.
Darren.
To Gable’s shame, washing up before dinner feels loathsome. It would be natural to be disgusted with himself for smelling sour and greasy, and he is, but ending the bath without rolling in some pine needles and racing madly in the wind leaves a distinct impression of something missing, like stepping down and expecting an extra stair but touching the floor instead. Lee is not very fond of his bath, either. Gable has to wonder, with a pang of dread, if their time spent on the road left a lasting impression on the boy. Or worse. If he’s inherited the shifting bones and ache for woods, too.
The Kendalls only attend dinner in the hall with the rest of the household because Master Eris had indicated he’d be there, too. Perhaps to keep an eye on Gable to make sure there weren’t any lingering effects from the drugs or the moon. But Gable indeed keeps full command over his body, and mostly over his mind, though it wanders from prairie to mountain to small wooden spoons to rocking horses—then to Alice. The hatred in her heart, in her eyes. In all their eyes.
How long does he have until the strangers at the table look the same way, too?
-
The barn is awash in dust and smells the next morning: leather soap, rug soap, the cattle-like musk of tack freshly oiled with neatsfoot. What will not be found in the barn is one ounce of manure, nor a cobweb, nor a single crusty saddle pad, nor any bucket or brush out of place. Not Buddy and the mares nor Arvak, either, who have all been turned out to make room for the white tornado that serves as their stablemanster. Blankets hang on a line that runs from the barn to a tree, freshly beaten and swaying in the bright, crisp air like flags on a proud ship. One of the shutters had been drooping; it now stands perfectly straight on its hinges. The door no longer squeals when it rolls open and shut.
Gable’s hostile takeover of the barn is not an attempt to win favor (who likes a bootlicker?) or even to make a right from a wrong (impossible) but rather an expression of aggressive, mandatory catharsis. Silently and determinedly clearing away the muck and mire of the past week, past month, past year, the sensation is a fresh leaf—and the result is sparkling stalls.
By late morning, the majority of the dust has billowed forcefully out of the barn’s windows and doors, helped along by a friendly cross-breeze. Frost is tied to the metal hoop mounted on the barn aisle while his room is given the same thorough demolition and reconstruction as the rest of the house. Lee sits on a tall stool nearby and keeps the stallion company by orating the entire history of the pine family from start to finish which, considering none of it is told in a linear fashion, has kept the pair busy for the better part of an hour so far.
Gable is dressed in only his pants and a raggedy blue handkerchief tied around his nose and mouth like some kind of bandit in disguise; he runs quite warm naturally and there's no use in wearing sleeves to cover the branding, now that Master Eris has seen it at its worst.
Gable's body moves within the confines of Frost's stall, but his mind is elsewhere. The garden. The room. The bite. The party. His home.
His father.
Allerick.
Darren.
Jon chooses not to stick around once the Kendall’s are free. Not because he has anything better to do (he doesn’t, really), but because it feels like intruding on a rather intimate moment between a man and his newly returned freedom. He knows the feeling all too well, the way everything else falls away in the warm light of the sun and reveals the quiet rushing of the wind through the trees and soft birdsong in the distance. It’s an intoxicating feeling, and Gable deserves to be left alone for it.
Unfortunately, Maddox is waiting for him when he returns to the library, his paperwork finished and a sour look upon his face.
"I take it things went well, seeing as I could spot Lee running around the garden from the window a few minutes ago." The redhead says cautiously, noting the way his master guards his injured arm. He crosses the floor between them in exactly three strides. "Let me see your arm."
"It went well enough, I suppose." The wizard yanks his arm away with a painful grimace when Maddox reaches for it. "We have a plan for the next month. We're going to shoe the horses tomorrow and then head into town to see about having a muzzle made to keep our dear stable master from getting too mouthy. If Mordecai can't fill the order in time we have plans to use one made of leather, though I'd prefer something sturdier if possible."
"But you're keeping him on, then?" The younger man tries again, this time managing to catch the wizard's arm as it flies past, making him hiss.
"Yes." He speaks through gritted teeth as his nephew releases the ties around the splint and pokes at his arm. "Sending him off when he poses this much of a threat is hardly what I would call 'wise'. Blackstaff wants me to kill them, both Gable and Lee, but I... I can't. They're innocent, really. Just had a string of bad luck, it isn't their fault one of them ended up bit--"
"They hid it from you though."
"But that isn't worth death-- OW!"
"Sorry." The redhead's apology is only halfhearted as he ties the splint back together. "The bones are still loose, you've not given them a chance to heal at all. No wonder you're sore. At least the lacerations are mostly closed, we can probably take the stitches out tomorrow."
"Well that's something..." The wizard grumbles as he pulls his arm back the second Maddox releases it. "I need a little good news in my life."
"I'd also like to point out that you absolutely should not be shoeing horses in this state, but I know I'm likely to be ignored, so instead I'll just say that if you wear the bloody sling I gave you, your arm will feel better."
"Hmph."
-
After dinner, the wizard sits alone in his room in front of the hearth, a warm cup of tea beside him. He's gone to great lengths undoing the bandages that have been so thoroughly tied around his arm, baring the ugly wound with its jagged puffy edges and misshapen form. Maddox is right, it looks horrible. And it probably won't look any better when he's through with it.
In his other hand he has a small scroll, upon which is scrawled a simple blessing that will cleanse the bite of the disease infecting it. It hasn't made it into his blood yet, but if he waits another day, it might. So without further hesitation, he reads off the incantation on the scroll, causing the yellowed parchment to burn away into ash as the spell is cast. Even the ash disappears after a moment, which is just as well because can't help but brace himself against his armchair as the wound burns.
It leaves him breathless and lightheaded for several minutes, until the burn subsides into something like a cold tingle. It always hurts, but this is the worst it's ever felt. Probably due to letting it fester for so long. Too long.
He drains his teacup with shaking hands, then crawls into bed, a knot of dragons curling up around him. Funny how they can tell when he's feeling poorly.
-
Against his better (or worse) judgement, Jonathan submits to his chief of staff's mothering and wanders out to the barn after breakfast with his injured arm tied up in a sling. He's dressed plainly, otherwise: a light green shirt and black trousers tucked into his riding boots. If the weather was warmer and he were bolder he might have foregone the shirt, knowing how warm things get that close to the brazier, but today he feels especially chilled and vulnerable, so he does not. If part of that is due to the way his arm still burns from the cleansing ritual he cast the night before, he won't admit it.
He is surprised, however, to see the barn looking so spotless this early in the morning. Normally it would have taken Maddox most of the day to get things looking so clean, if that, and yet the frantically-working figure of Gable Kendall tells him that such is not the case with his new stable master. Granted, Gable does not also have half the household looking for him with questions at all hours, but still.
"Mr. Kendall." He greets, flicking his free wrist to conjure up a ghostly hand that hovers right about where his dominant one would if it were not presently bound up in a sling. It has a slightly purple hue to it, much like Jonathan's other spells. "I see you've been busy this morning. Shall we shoe some horses?"
Unfortunately, Maddox is waiting for him when he returns to the library, his paperwork finished and a sour look upon his face.
"I take it things went well, seeing as I could spot Lee running around the garden from the window a few minutes ago." The redhead says cautiously, noting the way his master guards his injured arm. He crosses the floor between them in exactly three strides. "Let me see your arm."
"It went well enough, I suppose." The wizard yanks his arm away with a painful grimace when Maddox reaches for it. "We have a plan for the next month. We're going to shoe the horses tomorrow and then head into town to see about having a muzzle made to keep our dear stable master from getting too mouthy. If Mordecai can't fill the order in time we have plans to use one made of leather, though I'd prefer something sturdier if possible."
"But you're keeping him on, then?" The younger man tries again, this time managing to catch the wizard's arm as it flies past, making him hiss.
"Yes." He speaks through gritted teeth as his nephew releases the ties around the splint and pokes at his arm. "Sending him off when he poses this much of a threat is hardly what I would call 'wise'. Blackstaff wants me to kill them, both Gable and Lee, but I... I can't. They're innocent, really. Just had a string of bad luck, it isn't their fault one of them ended up bit--"
"They hid it from you though."
"But that isn't worth death-- OW!"
"Sorry." The redhead's apology is only halfhearted as he ties the splint back together. "The bones are still loose, you've not given them a chance to heal at all. No wonder you're sore. At least the lacerations are mostly closed, we can probably take the stitches out tomorrow."
"Well that's something..." The wizard grumbles as he pulls his arm back the second Maddox releases it. "I need a little good news in my life."
"I'd also like to point out that you absolutely should not be shoeing horses in this state, but I know I'm likely to be ignored, so instead I'll just say that if you wear the bloody sling I gave you, your arm will feel better."
"Hmph."
-
After dinner, the wizard sits alone in his room in front of the hearth, a warm cup of tea beside him. He's gone to great lengths undoing the bandages that have been so thoroughly tied around his arm, baring the ugly wound with its jagged puffy edges and misshapen form. Maddox is right, it looks horrible. And it probably won't look any better when he's through with it.
In his other hand he has a small scroll, upon which is scrawled a simple blessing that will cleanse the bite of the disease infecting it. It hasn't made it into his blood yet, but if he waits another day, it might. So without further hesitation, he reads off the incantation on the scroll, causing the yellowed parchment to burn away into ash as the spell is cast. Even the ash disappears after a moment, which is just as well because can't help but brace himself against his armchair as the wound burns.
It leaves him breathless and lightheaded for several minutes, until the burn subsides into something like a cold tingle. It always hurts, but this is the worst it's ever felt. Probably due to letting it fester for so long. Too long.
He drains his teacup with shaking hands, then crawls into bed, a knot of dragons curling up around him. Funny how they can tell when he's feeling poorly.
-
Against his better (or worse) judgement, Jonathan submits to his chief of staff's mothering and wanders out to the barn after breakfast with his injured arm tied up in a sling. He's dressed plainly, otherwise: a light green shirt and black trousers tucked into his riding boots. If the weather was warmer and he were bolder he might have foregone the shirt, knowing how warm things get that close to the brazier, but today he feels especially chilled and vulnerable, so he does not. If part of that is due to the way his arm still burns from the cleansing ritual he cast the night before, he won't admit it.
He is surprised, however, to see the barn looking so spotless this early in the morning. Normally it would have taken Maddox most of the day to get things looking so clean, if that, and yet the frantically-working figure of Gable Kendall tells him that such is not the case with his new stable master. Granted, Gable does not also have half the household looking for him with questions at all hours, but still.
"Mr. Kendall." He greets, flicking his free wrist to conjure up a ghostly hand that hovers right about where his dominant one would if it were not presently bound up in a sling. It has a slightly purple hue to it, much like Jonathan's other spells. "I see you've been busy this morning. Shall we shoe some horses?"
After a moment of delay in which he asks himself if he really did just hear his own name, Gable pops his head out of the stall to return Master Eris' greeting, albeit with a look of shock. In the course of his fervor, the cowboy had momentarily forgotten about their plans to shoe the horses—and even to visit the metalsmith afterward, for that matter, despite looking forward to going into town. He glances down at himself quickly, wishing he'd heard the wizard's approach in time to rinse up and put his shirt on. The hair on his arms, chest, and even his eyebrows are rimed in dust. Untying the bandana, he reveals a clean, shaven lower face; he might have looked a bit younger and less wild without his bristle, but the rest of his unkempt state makes up for it.
"Yessir, I thought today was as good a day as any," he drawls about his busy morning, still blinking as though he’s waking up out of a daze. "I always like to clean house before real winter settles and again before summer begins." While exiting the stall, Gable's gaze darts to the purplish ghost hand at the Master's side, then with a pang of guilt, he notes the sling that cradles the real arm to the man’s chest. Gable gives the magical hand a wide berth on his way past and heads for the tools he'd seen in the tack room. "Might as well start with Frost, sir?"
Upon seeing the wizard, Lee greets him with a small, sweet smile that recalls apricots and mandolins, but then, like his father (or perhaps because of his father) his countenance darkens with suspicion and timidity at the display of ghostly magic. When his papa leaves the immediate vicinity, Lee slips from the stool and follows in the large man’s wake. He branches off at the last moment, however, and dives into the hay, into a tunnel, to seek out his splattery other-parent.
Gable remains wordless as he prepares the brazier and lays out nippers, pullers, knives, a rasp, and whatever else he can identify for the job. He arranges these instruments in a very straight line on the small bench near the anvil as if they were pencils on a writing desk.
"Yessir, I thought today was as good a day as any," he drawls about his busy morning, still blinking as though he’s waking up out of a daze. "I always like to clean house before real winter settles and again before summer begins." While exiting the stall, Gable's gaze darts to the purplish ghost hand at the Master's side, then with a pang of guilt, he notes the sling that cradles the real arm to the man’s chest. Gable gives the magical hand a wide berth on his way past and heads for the tools he'd seen in the tack room. "Might as well start with Frost, sir?"
Upon seeing the wizard, Lee greets him with a small, sweet smile that recalls apricots and mandolins, but then, like his father (or perhaps because of his father) his countenance darkens with suspicion and timidity at the display of ghostly magic. When his papa leaves the immediate vicinity, Lee slips from the stool and follows in the large man’s wake. He branches off at the last moment, however, and dives into the hay, into a tunnel, to seek out his splattery other-parent.
Gable remains wordless as he prepares the brazier and lays out nippers, pullers, knives, a rasp, and whatever else he can identify for the job. He arranges these instruments in a very straight line on the small bench near the anvil as if they were pencils on a writing desk.
“May as well. He’s already here, and he should be easy enough to start with.” Jon nods, making sure not to step on Lee as the three cross and shuffle paths.
The wizard is unfortunately ungainly as he moves, collecting a hoof pick from one of the grooming buckets before setting to work cleaning his stallion’s feet of the natural dirt and debris collected just by walking. It takes a few minutes for him to settle into the motions, his back and shoulder still straining as if to move his immobilized arm, even with the phantom hand taking over those duties without their input. In truth, all he has to do is think of what he wants the hand to do, and it will do it with as much strength as he himself would normally possess. And yet, to disconnect those thoughts from his physical body is nearly impossible, resulting in this weird combination of mental gymnastics and unnecessary physical exertion. By the time he finishes the fourth hoof, he is quite out of breath and Gable has gotten out the majority of their tools.
“Thank you.” He huffs, lighting the wood in the brazier with a simple spell, then using a set of tongs to line up a number of the stock horseshoes beneath the embers. He can do some of the finer shaping by hand once the metal is hot enough, the brazier is just there to give it a head start. “Frost, Timber, and the drafts will all get new shoes. The mares and Arvak will all be fine barefoot until spring. I’ll still trim them, of course.”
While the metal heats, he sets to work pulling Frost’s worn shoes and trimming down his feet, his phantom hand alternating between wielding rasp and nippers. The only discernible sounds in the barn are Jon’s grunts and the crackle of fire for a long time, but it’s tense silence. There are too many things presently unsaid between them, and the wizard especially feels the need to clear the air.
“So.” He starts out, moving between feet once he has one trimmed down to his liking. “Despite my very clear directives to do otherwise, you declined to inform me of your lycanthropic condition, or conditions as it were. Why? And also, could you perhaps pass me that rasp?”
The wizard is unfortunately ungainly as he moves, collecting a hoof pick from one of the grooming buckets before setting to work cleaning his stallion’s feet of the natural dirt and debris collected just by walking. It takes a few minutes for him to settle into the motions, his back and shoulder still straining as if to move his immobilized arm, even with the phantom hand taking over those duties without their input. In truth, all he has to do is think of what he wants the hand to do, and it will do it with as much strength as he himself would normally possess. And yet, to disconnect those thoughts from his physical body is nearly impossible, resulting in this weird combination of mental gymnastics and unnecessary physical exertion. By the time he finishes the fourth hoof, he is quite out of breath and Gable has gotten out the majority of their tools.
“Thank you.” He huffs, lighting the wood in the brazier with a simple spell, then using a set of tongs to line up a number of the stock horseshoes beneath the embers. He can do some of the finer shaping by hand once the metal is hot enough, the brazier is just there to give it a head start. “Frost, Timber, and the drafts will all get new shoes. The mares and Arvak will all be fine barefoot until spring. I’ll still trim them, of course.”
While the metal heats, he sets to work pulling Frost’s worn shoes and trimming down his feet, his phantom hand alternating between wielding rasp and nippers. The only discernible sounds in the barn are Jon’s grunts and the crackle of fire for a long time, but it’s tense silence. There are too many things presently unsaid between them, and the wizard especially feels the need to clear the air.
“So.” He starts out, moving between feet once he has one trimmed down to his liking. “Despite my very clear directives to do otherwise, you declined to inform me of your lycanthropic condition, or conditions as it were. Why? And also, could you perhaps pass me that rasp?”
That day in the library when the Master’s calming presence surrounded him and the whirl of arcane noise went quiet, Gable had felt comforted by their proximity, even to the point of wishing to linger in it. Now he hovers timidly, feeling torn and a bit helpless as he watches the wizard struggle to find his rhythm. Once every minute or so, he lunges forward as if to hand off a tool or hold the stallion’s foot steady, but stops short, afraid his help is not only unwanted, but unwelcome. So he stokes the brazier instead.
Gable startles at the wizard’s “So” and his heart leaps to his throat. Tears nearly well in his eyes while listening to the question (which isn’t mean or harsh, only direct, and not anything he couldn’t shoulder on an average day.) Silently he curses the flood of memories—vivid, jagged gasps of sight, sound, sensation—that refuse to leave him alone despite this being a very unprofessional and inconvenient time to be feeling them.
Blinking down at the tools, it’s as if he’s never seen one before in his life. Still, as if in a dream, his hand finds the long metal file and he holds it out—first to the wizard’s left hand then, stiffly, to the one that floats.
“Folks don’t like different,” he answers quietly, then remains silent nearly long enough that it seems he has nothing else to add. One glance at his face would tell the wizard that nothing could be farther from the truth, however, and that the young man just needs a moment to gather himself. “I thought I was in control of myself up til that night; it seemed foolish to stir up trouble for no reason.” He tries to take a breath and realizes his chest is too tight for it. Maybe from all that dust he kicked up? But it hurts a little, too.
Gable startles at the wizard’s “So” and his heart leaps to his throat. Tears nearly well in his eyes while listening to the question (which isn’t mean or harsh, only direct, and not anything he couldn’t shoulder on an average day.) Silently he curses the flood of memories—vivid, jagged gasps of sight, sound, sensation—that refuse to leave him alone despite this being a very unprofessional and inconvenient time to be feeling them.
Blinking down at the tools, it’s as if he’s never seen one before in his life. Still, as if in a dream, his hand finds the long metal file and he holds it out—first to the wizard’s left hand then, stiffly, to the one that floats.
“Folks don’t like different,” he answers quietly, then remains silent nearly long enough that it seems he has nothing else to add. One glance at his face would tell the wizard that nothing could be farther from the truth, however, and that the young man just needs a moment to gather himself. “I thought I was in control of myself up til that night; it seemed foolish to stir up trouble for no reason.” He tries to take a breath and realizes his chest is too tight for it. Maybe from all that dust he kicked up? But it hurts a little, too.
"Folks don't like different."
Jon sucks in a breath and holds it while he files Frost's last hoof down to a more appropriate length, evening out the surface. He wants to drop the tool where he stands and start shouting.
"Have you looked around you, Gable?" he wants to say, gesturing pointedly to the illusory hand at his side, strip his shirt off and show him the web of scarring that conceals internal organs made of metals and fluids and materials he can't even begin to understand. "None of this is normal, nothing about any of us is normal. You're living under the roof of a freak not so different than yourself. Wizards are strange enough company, but even my own peers call me misfit. Khallha studied for decades before Blackstaff bound herself to her, and any of her apprentices had done the same in preparation to take up that mantle after. 'Any sack of meat in arm's reach,' they said. I should be dead a thousand ways by now, but somehow by the grace or spite of the gods, I'm still living."
The wizard stays quiet, despite the ache to bare his soul, even once the rasp has gone still and he replaces it with the other tools, turning his attention to the metal warming in the brazier. He mutters a spell under his breath, causing flames to sprout from the palm of his one good hand just before he plunges it into the fire to pull out a warm horseshoe. In his spectral hand, he holds a hammer.
"That bite must have been fairly fresh, then." He comments, after clearing his throat. "Can you grab some tongs and keep this shoe in position over the anvil? Usually I'd be able to do this myself, but the flames have to go on the wrong hand this go around. I'll move it how I need it, I just need you to keep it there."
"Do you know where it came from? The bite, I mean. I've read that traumatic infections can occasionally cause memory loss, but I'm concerned that if the source is nearby, you might not be the only beast I have to worry about. My primary concern is making sure that you and everyone else on my property remains safe, of course. But it would be good to be aware if there were others around that might pose a threat. I do trust that you might have had greater control of yourself before the second infection; I've read that hunt-blooded were-beasts, those bearing the hereditary forms of lycanthropy such as yourself, can change their form at will, and retain more of themselves in their beast forms."
Jon sucks in a breath and holds it while he files Frost's last hoof down to a more appropriate length, evening out the surface. He wants to drop the tool where he stands and start shouting.
"Have you looked around you, Gable?" he wants to say, gesturing pointedly to the illusory hand at his side, strip his shirt off and show him the web of scarring that conceals internal organs made of metals and fluids and materials he can't even begin to understand. "None of this is normal, nothing about any of us is normal. You're living under the roof of a freak not so different than yourself. Wizards are strange enough company, but even my own peers call me misfit. Khallha studied for decades before Blackstaff bound herself to her, and any of her apprentices had done the same in preparation to take up that mantle after. 'Any sack of meat in arm's reach,' they said. I should be dead a thousand ways by now, but somehow by the grace or spite of the gods, I'm still living."
The wizard stays quiet, despite the ache to bare his soul, even once the rasp has gone still and he replaces it with the other tools, turning his attention to the metal warming in the brazier. He mutters a spell under his breath, causing flames to sprout from the palm of his one good hand just before he plunges it into the fire to pull out a warm horseshoe. In his spectral hand, he holds a hammer.
"That bite must have been fairly fresh, then." He comments, after clearing his throat. "Can you grab some tongs and keep this shoe in position over the anvil? Usually I'd be able to do this myself, but the flames have to go on the wrong hand this go around. I'll move it how I need it, I just need you to keep it there."
"Do you know where it came from? The bite, I mean. I've read that traumatic infections can occasionally cause memory loss, but I'm concerned that if the source is nearby, you might not be the only beast I have to worry about. My primary concern is making sure that you and everyone else on my property remains safe, of course. But it would be good to be aware if there were others around that might pose a threat. I do trust that you might have had greater control of yourself before the second infection; I've read that hunt-blooded were-beasts, those bearing the hereditary forms of lycanthropy such as yourself, can change their form at will, and retain more of themselves in their beast forms."
The silence that follows his own words rests heavily on Gable’s conscience. Naturally he wonders what his master is thinking right now, and where this conversation is headed, and if the other man has changed his mind about how they’re going to move forward. But watching the wizard plunge his hand into the brazier’s flames jars Gable out of his worrying and he surges forward with a shout of confused alarm. He freezes for a brief moment with his hands outstretched, poised to snatch and drag and pat before any serious burning can take place. Then, realizing that his senses have been tricked, he retreats again slowly with a look of utter astonishment, not quite trusting that the wizard won’t start screaming in delayed agony. Puh. Magic.
“Consarn blazes…” he mutters, obediently turning to pick up the tongs. Yes, he agrees, the bite was fresh. Three weeks old at the time of their first conversation.
Doing his best to keep the tongs steady with hands that are anything but, Gable lets another long silence lapse in response to the wizard’s question. There is a little relief and comfort, at least, in hearing that Master Eris believes that he’d not meant to put anyone in danger; that he trusts Gable’s word, despite Gabe concealing the truth from him at the outset, means a great deal to him. The fact it took the corroboration of a book to earn it cheapens the moment only a little; that’s his own fault.
Blessed memory loss, he thinks. If only.
“I remember,” he mutters darkly. “I s’pose it’s possible she’s moved around, sir, but likely she remained back home if no one caught her. And if they did get their hands on her, then… she’s not a concern any longer.”
“Consarn blazes…” he mutters, obediently turning to pick up the tongs. Yes, he agrees, the bite was fresh. Three weeks old at the time of their first conversation.
Doing his best to keep the tongs steady with hands that are anything but, Gable lets another long silence lapse in response to the wizard’s question. There is a little relief and comfort, at least, in hearing that Master Eris believes that he’d not meant to put anyone in danger; that he trusts Gable’s word, despite Gabe concealing the truth from him at the outset, means a great deal to him. The fact it took the corroboration of a book to earn it cheapens the moment only a little; that’s his own fault.
Blessed memory loss, he thinks. If only.
“I remember,” he mutters darkly. “I s’pose it’s possible she’s moved around, sir, but likely she remained back home if no one caught her. And if they did get their hands on her, then… she’s not a concern any longer.”
Man and horse both jump at Gable's sudden outburst, though one settles far more quickly than the other. Frost is quite used to loud human noises in his vicinity, but this human hasn't made many noises around him yet, and so it catches him off guard. He sounds like an animal, more than a man. Maybe Revyn was right to be worried about him? Usually the mares tended to be needlessly moody over such things, but maybe there's a grain of truth to this one...?
"Sorry," the wizard mutters, realizing a tad belatedly that his casual use of magic has unintentionally unnerved the man. He pauses just long enough to give Frost's belly a reassuring scratch with the hammer before setting to work on his shoes. "That would have been your first moon with it, then. Which, unfortunately, does explain why you didn't know it was coming. With any luck, we'll be more prepared for it this go around."
Jon uses a combination of techniques to get the horseshoes shaped right. Hammer this, heat that, hand sculpt this part because when you're a wizard with fire at your fingertips, why not? If it makes a better fit, do it. When he thinks he has the shape about right, he lets the thing cool for just a bit before taking it over and laying the hot metal across the bottom of Frost's foot. The resulting smoke and acrid odor are something both of them are well used to, unlike Gable's sudden shout, so all the stallion does in reaction is lick his lips and yawn. Satisfied with the fit and shape, he sets that shoe aside to work on the next.
"Here's hoping she stays there, then." He lapses into silence while he finishes shaping the next three horseshoes, but speaks up again when he turns to hammering them in, after instructing Gable to throw four more shoes in the fire to heat. "While we're here and talking about such things, is there anything else you've been keeping from me that might be beneficial to share? I'm not typically one to pry into my employee's personal lives, but given recent events..."
"Sorry," the wizard mutters, realizing a tad belatedly that his casual use of magic has unintentionally unnerved the man. He pauses just long enough to give Frost's belly a reassuring scratch with the hammer before setting to work on his shoes. "That would have been your first moon with it, then. Which, unfortunately, does explain why you didn't know it was coming. With any luck, we'll be more prepared for it this go around."
Jon uses a combination of techniques to get the horseshoes shaped right. Hammer this, heat that, hand sculpt this part because when you're a wizard with fire at your fingertips, why not? If it makes a better fit, do it. When he thinks he has the shape about right, he lets the thing cool for just a bit before taking it over and laying the hot metal across the bottom of Frost's foot. The resulting smoke and acrid odor are something both of them are well used to, unlike Gable's sudden shout, so all the stallion does in reaction is lick his lips and yawn. Satisfied with the fit and shape, he sets that shoe aside to work on the next.
"Here's hoping she stays there, then." He lapses into silence while he finishes shaping the next three horseshoes, but speaks up again when he turns to hammering them in, after instructing Gable to throw four more shoes in the fire to heat. "While we're here and talking about such things, is there anything else you've been keeping from me that might be beneficial to share? I'm not typically one to pry into my employee's personal lives, but given recent events..."
So long as the wizard remains quiet, so does the cowpoke. Gable takes his time in laying the horseshoes in the coals, using the tongs to get them to sit in a neat, curved line that follows the curve of the brazier.
There’s another pause before he answers this question, but this time it’s thoughtful instead of dreadful and only lasts a few seconds. “I reckon so sir, yes. It’s likely there’s a lot that you might be interested to know, although I’m not too sure which parts are necessary.” All of it seems crucial, now, but how much of that feeling is wrapped up in the urge to pour his wrecked heart out to somebody? How much of it matters anymore?
Gable decides to start only with the most pertinent part, which is to straighten out the half-truths he’d shared the first day they’d spoken; Master Eris has likely pieced most of it together on his own by now, but it will feel good to tell the tale as it really happened. With Lee’s presence in mind (and literally in his mind, since the shields the wizard had placed shattered three nights ago) he drops his voice to nearly a whisper.
“I’d left the Nest—Little Hen, I mean—in a peculiar way, even barring my taking Lee; Alice had been mean as snakes to the boy, all right, and I found that out from my mother’s boyfriend—the milkman—after it had gone on for a long while. I had no idea she’d hated me and my son since the day I’d confided about that other form, the one I’d been born with; I think that upon hearing it was inheritable, she was disgusted by the thought that her child might turn out to be different from her, and her husband was something else, too, and I recognize now that it was wrong of me not to tell her as soon as she’d gotten in the condition, but Lee wasn’t supposed to happen. I couldn’t have known to tell her before he came, only a while after…” Gable sucks in a breath, trying to clear his head enough to remember his point.
“When I came back for Lee to bring him to the ranch, it was the day after I'd gotten bit. I was still healing, and Alice saw it. She turned me in. So o'course after that, I couldn’t stay anywhere near the town any longer.
"If it weren't for Lee, I might have let them have their way with me, on account of not knowing what the disease would bring, and being scared I was as dangerous as the one who'd dragged me around like a chew toy. Yet I couldn't leave him with her. So I escaped from the jail. I presume they expected as much might happen, considering they’d branded my arm despite the fact I was a dead man in a few hours’ time anyway, come sunrise when the judge would arrive. That's the first time I wore that fur, and it happened sort of on accident when I reached for the form I was used to; I'd meant to slip through the bars, but with that large size, I could twist them like wires.” He recalls this with guilty amazement, then quickly adds, “Nobody got hurt; Ernie and Clyde practically bowed at me as I went out, and Darren wasn’t there, thank heaven.
“One of my brothers—that’s Darren—he’s the town marshal. He’s a mean animal on a friendly day and a cruel bastard on the rest. He’s got no concept of mercy; always gives out the worst, most vile punishments the law allows, and sometimes ones it doesn't. Anyhow… he might be after my tail. But for all his wickedness, he’s not too bright, and he’s too attached to his post to wander this far, I think. But if he and Al, my other half-brother, somehow see eye to eye, then that might be a different story; Al’s a leech as well as a ‘hunt-blood’ or whatever you called it. He can hurt you with his mind if he wants. He’s always had a knack for finding me ‘cause of our blood tie, just like our father. But Al and I haven’t got a bone at the moment, so…”
Gable trails off with a deep sigh, then remains quiet, waiting for some kind of input as to whether he should keep going or try to clarify any part of his rambling. A mixture of sadness and exhaustion have already drawn his young face, but a lightness is there in his eyes, too: relief brought about by clearing the air, and by walking himself back through the events out loud, where someone else can hear it and know that it really happened. Somehow it helps. Somehow it feels good, despite the fact he has nothing good to say.
There’s another pause before he answers this question, but this time it’s thoughtful instead of dreadful and only lasts a few seconds. “I reckon so sir, yes. It’s likely there’s a lot that you might be interested to know, although I’m not too sure which parts are necessary.” All of it seems crucial, now, but how much of that feeling is wrapped up in the urge to pour his wrecked heart out to somebody? How much of it matters anymore?
Gable decides to start only with the most pertinent part, which is to straighten out the half-truths he’d shared the first day they’d spoken; Master Eris has likely pieced most of it together on his own by now, but it will feel good to tell the tale as it really happened. With Lee’s presence in mind (and literally in his mind, since the shields the wizard had placed shattered three nights ago) he drops his voice to nearly a whisper.
“I’d left the Nest—Little Hen, I mean—in a peculiar way, even barring my taking Lee; Alice had been mean as snakes to the boy, all right, and I found that out from my mother’s boyfriend—the milkman—after it had gone on for a long while. I had no idea she’d hated me and my son since the day I’d confided about that other form, the one I’d been born with; I think that upon hearing it was inheritable, she was disgusted by the thought that her child might turn out to be different from her, and her husband was something else, too, and I recognize now that it was wrong of me not to tell her as soon as she’d gotten in the condition, but Lee wasn’t supposed to happen. I couldn’t have known to tell her before he came, only a while after…” Gable sucks in a breath, trying to clear his head enough to remember his point.
“When I came back for Lee to bring him to the ranch, it was the day after I'd gotten bit. I was still healing, and Alice saw it. She turned me in. So o'course after that, I couldn’t stay anywhere near the town any longer.
"If it weren't for Lee, I might have let them have their way with me, on account of not knowing what the disease would bring, and being scared I was as dangerous as the one who'd dragged me around like a chew toy. Yet I couldn't leave him with her. So I escaped from the jail. I presume they expected as much might happen, considering they’d branded my arm despite the fact I was a dead man in a few hours’ time anyway, come sunrise when the judge would arrive. That's the first time I wore that fur, and it happened sort of on accident when I reached for the form I was used to; I'd meant to slip through the bars, but with that large size, I could twist them like wires.” He recalls this with guilty amazement, then quickly adds, “Nobody got hurt; Ernie and Clyde practically bowed at me as I went out, and Darren wasn’t there, thank heaven.
“One of my brothers—that’s Darren—he’s the town marshal. He’s a mean animal on a friendly day and a cruel bastard on the rest. He’s got no concept of mercy; always gives out the worst, most vile punishments the law allows, and sometimes ones it doesn't. Anyhow… he might be after my tail. But for all his wickedness, he’s not too bright, and he’s too attached to his post to wander this far, I think. But if he and Al, my other half-brother, somehow see eye to eye, then that might be a different story; Al’s a leech as well as a ‘hunt-blood’ or whatever you called it. He can hurt you with his mind if he wants. He’s always had a knack for finding me ‘cause of our blood tie, just like our father. But Al and I haven’t got a bone at the moment, so…”
Gable trails off with a deep sigh, then remains quiet, waiting for some kind of input as to whether he should keep going or try to clarify any part of his rambling. A mixture of sadness and exhaustion have already drawn his young face, but a lightness is there in his eyes, too: relief brought about by clearing the air, and by walking himself back through the events out loud, where someone else can hear it and know that it really happened. Somehow it helps. Somehow it feels good, despite the fact he has nothing good to say.
Jon nods along as he listens, attentively cataloguing the man’s history and any potential threats that might come with it. So far, the man’s family members are at the top of that list. Ah well, nothing to be done about it until they show their faces, if they decide to at all. A check of the wards wouldn’t go amiss, just in case, but at the moment at least, all he can do is mentally bookmark the possibility of a threat for future reference. The fact that his stable boy is a fugitive from the law registers only weakly with the wizard. He’d been caught being a monster…
… hadn’t they all, though?
Jonathan knows he’s taken more lives than Gable could even dream of, and not all of them were on the field of battle. Which of them is the bigger monster, then? Wizard? Werewolf? If someone thought the latter should be locked up, surely the former should too. The only difference is that Jon has a title and a warrant, but that doesn’t mean he has any more control over what lives he takes. Whether it’s the word of the Court or Blackstaff’s paranoia, usually he doesn’t have much of a say. There are days he certainly feels like a monster by the end of it.
“I see.” He grunts, dropping Frost’s final finished foot. The stallion snorts and paws at the ground, testing his new shoes, fully aware of how handsome he looks. “Well… you wouldn’t be the first former convict to work for me, and you certainly aren’t likely to be the last. Out of the four I’ve known about, only one has turned out poorly, so suffice to say I’m willing to overlook that unless it proves to be an issue. In my home, my word is the only law that matters. Someone shows up and tries to enforce their own laws on my property? They’d be a fool to try. Would you mind going to get Timber? I’ll handle putting Frost up.”
The wizard finds himself feeling oddly protective of the young man beside him as he unties Frost and leads him back to his (now clean) stall. Of course, the first thing the animal does is lie down and roll in the fresh bedding, but at least it’s fresh. Protective? Or possessive? He isn’t quite sure which at this point.
… hadn’t they all, though?
Jonathan knows he’s taken more lives than Gable could even dream of, and not all of them were on the field of battle. Which of them is the bigger monster, then? Wizard? Werewolf? If someone thought the latter should be locked up, surely the former should too. The only difference is that Jon has a title and a warrant, but that doesn’t mean he has any more control over what lives he takes. Whether it’s the word of the Court or Blackstaff’s paranoia, usually he doesn’t have much of a say. There are days he certainly feels like a monster by the end of it.
“I see.” He grunts, dropping Frost’s final finished foot. The stallion snorts and paws at the ground, testing his new shoes, fully aware of how handsome he looks. “Well… you wouldn’t be the first former convict to work for me, and you certainly aren’t likely to be the last. Out of the four I’ve known about, only one has turned out poorly, so suffice to say I’m willing to overlook that unless it proves to be an issue. In my home, my word is the only law that matters. Someone shows up and tries to enforce their own laws on my property? They’d be a fool to try. Would you mind going to get Timber? I’ll handle putting Frost up.”
The wizard finds himself feeling oddly protective of the young man beside him as he unties Frost and leads him back to his (now clean) stall. Of course, the first thing the animal does is lie down and roll in the fresh bedding, but at least it’s fresh. Protective? Or possessive? He isn’t quite sure which at this point.
Surprised yet again by the wizard’s tranquility in the face of unusual circumstances, Gable blinks and offers the ghost of a smile. Convicts? As in more than one? It’s hard to believe at first, but he finds himself chuckling almost fondly. If the sensation of raw power that had kept him (hundreds of pounds larger than the slight man) at bay when they were at odds in the bunker was any indication... “Yes, sir. I believe they would be mighty foolish.” But he’d never claimed his family was wise.
Out in the pasture, Gable perches on the fence and cycles a deep, cleansing breath from his belly. The day is deceptively pleasant and with a pang, he wishes the earth would skip winter this year so he could lie in the tall, tall grasses and eat sweet clover again soon. This year’s spring and summer had been devoted to things that didn’t love him back, while the things that did love him slipped quietly into history. But winter is a time for reading, at least, and he enjoys the company of books nearly as much as he enjoys eating and resting, and the cold months are a good time for those things, too; he needs both quite badly.
Timber has wedged himself between the mares, so Gable takes another minute observing the herd’s mood. Happy and grazing, seems like. He’s feeling a little lighter now himself.
After slipping the halter on Timber’s head, Gable promises Revyn that they’re going be friends someday. But today is not that day, it seems, as he has to twirl the end of the lead line to shoo her from making trouble at the gate.
Inside the barn while tying Timber to the same metal hoop Frost had been, he studies the wizard from the side at a small distance, wondering for the first time how the man came to be here. Not just ‘here’ as in Black Pine Crossing, but right now, this very moment: a wielder of magic, and the master of a large house, and a man who invites convicts to work for him so long as they’re repentant. The curiosity has a little to do with seeing him in a somewhat friendly light again—not just as an employer, but the ally he was beginning to glimpse when he’d tasted the man’s magic soothing his mind—and a lot to do with the fact Gable can’t picture him any younger.
Slipping back into their rhythm more naturally than it had been acquired, he hands off the hoof pick and lines up the rasp and nippers at the wizard’s side. Gable might have offered to at least go ahead and clean Timber’s hooves to save his master the menial effort, but Mr. Rex had warned him about Master Eris’s particular need for shoeing the horses himself: 'The blacksmith has offered to take over. Those discussions never end particularly well.’
Thinking of the blacksmith reminds him of their upcoming errand, which leads to a brief daydream about lumber yards and rocking horse designs, which makes him wonder if carving anything ever again is such a good idea after all. The arcane noise that’s returned to his mind is not so deafening now, for some reason, but more of an annoying tinnitus that reminds him nothing is the same as it used to be.
“Have you made a bigger spoon yet?” His hand smooths across Timber’s side in a few long, contemplative passes. “Lee hasn’t asked for his back, but I’d reckon it’s awful slow-goings eating dinner off a thimble. If you’re using it at all.” Master Eris had mentioned the spoon only briefly, and only in order to tell him that he’d better be honest about his ‘innate skill with magic.’ The wizard hadn’t said he liked it, or even tried it for that matter. But if he had, it would only make sense that he’d give himself an upgrade as soon as possible.
Out in the pasture, Gable perches on the fence and cycles a deep, cleansing breath from his belly. The day is deceptively pleasant and with a pang, he wishes the earth would skip winter this year so he could lie in the tall, tall grasses and eat sweet clover again soon. This year’s spring and summer had been devoted to things that didn’t love him back, while the things that did love him slipped quietly into history. But winter is a time for reading, at least, and he enjoys the company of books nearly as much as he enjoys eating and resting, and the cold months are a good time for those things, too; he needs both quite badly.
Timber has wedged himself between the mares, so Gable takes another minute observing the herd’s mood. Happy and grazing, seems like. He’s feeling a little lighter now himself.
After slipping the halter on Timber’s head, Gable promises Revyn that they’re going be friends someday. But today is not that day, it seems, as he has to twirl the end of the lead line to shoo her from making trouble at the gate.
Inside the barn while tying Timber to the same metal hoop Frost had been, he studies the wizard from the side at a small distance, wondering for the first time how the man came to be here. Not just ‘here’ as in Black Pine Crossing, but right now, this very moment: a wielder of magic, and the master of a large house, and a man who invites convicts to work for him so long as they’re repentant. The curiosity has a little to do with seeing him in a somewhat friendly light again—not just as an employer, but the ally he was beginning to glimpse when he’d tasted the man’s magic soothing his mind—and a lot to do with the fact Gable can’t picture him any younger.
Slipping back into their rhythm more naturally than it had been acquired, he hands off the hoof pick and lines up the rasp and nippers at the wizard’s side. Gable might have offered to at least go ahead and clean Timber’s hooves to save his master the menial effort, but Mr. Rex had warned him about Master Eris’s particular need for shoeing the horses himself: 'The blacksmith has offered to take over. Those discussions never end particularly well.’
Thinking of the blacksmith reminds him of their upcoming errand, which leads to a brief daydream about lumber yards and rocking horse designs, which makes him wonder if carving anything ever again is such a good idea after all. The arcane noise that’s returned to his mind is not so deafening now, for some reason, but more of an annoying tinnitus that reminds him nothing is the same as it used to be.
“Have you made a bigger spoon yet?” His hand smooths across Timber’s side in a few long, contemplative passes. “Lee hasn’t asked for his back, but I’d reckon it’s awful slow-goings eating dinner off a thimble. If you’re using it at all.” Master Eris had mentioned the spoon only briefly, and only in order to tell him that he’d better be honest about his ‘innate skill with magic.’ The wizard hadn’t said he liked it, or even tried it for that matter. But if he had, it would only make sense that he’d give himself an upgrade as soon as possible.
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