"It's time for me to be going, now." Elrusyo comments offhandedly as we reach a rare smooth patch of road leading farther and farther away from the river to our right.
Everyone within earshot, up to and including those among us who seem as though they would genuinely enjoy his absence, turn to look at him with confusion. He quickly takes on another smile like a house cat who's gotten the dove down out of its cage.
"I know, I know. It already feels like we've been journeying together forever. But I promise you all, you will be able to carry on without me. My training has demonstrated that for each of you." He gives us an agonizingly sagely nod and ignores the dense silence that follows, until one of us finally asks what he means by "training".
"Now, now, I don't expect you to heap praise upon me for it. But surely you realized why I came to you."
"To take our drinking money?" Ciudo asks innocently.
"No." Replies Elrusyo, shaking his head.
"To horrify us onto the precipice of a coma?" Sarq grips the edge of his leather instrument case.
"While that was thoroughly enjoyable, no." The hedge-sage says with audible satisfaction.
"To annoy someone new and different after it's become abundantly clear to you that you are a sad, lonely creature with no loved ones, friends, or colleagues other than eccentric..." Hraela begins, fire in her voice, before gradually trailing off into hesitation and finishing that line of thought.
Do I qualify as one of those eccentrics? If so, I am oddly flattered.
"Oh, how I'll miss you the most, my dear Gert. But, no. I came to each of you knowing that I could help tease out a much-needed quality for the journey ahead. You, with your fiery dogmatism, needed an exercise in appreciating a perspective other than your own. Sarq, I already emphasized your role's importance, and you performed better than some field surgeons in a pinch. And Robber, my dear friend, needed a couple of pints of reminding that you are not one of those stodgy professors- that among other things, you must feel the life you're leading, even if it's in a drunken stupor." He pats me on the back.
"... What about me, sir?" Ciudo pipes back up in the resulting silence.
"What?" Elrusyo blinks and looks to our young linguist.
"... Oh! Er. Well, you, ah... Ahem. Well! I only needed to verify it, and sure enough, you are exactly who and what you need to be in order to, uh, thrive among your fellows here." He slaps together affirmations hastily.
"Really? ... Huh. Oh, wow." Ciudo seems to sit up a little more straight in his seat now. We don't say anything.
"Anyway, I will leave you all to it. You've got a lot of ground to cover before the next chapter of your story, I'd say? I have faith that you'll get what you have coming from this. And you might hear from me again, before you get to hide away safe in your dormitories once more. But only when you aren't looking for me." With hardly any movement on his part, he sets a bag down upon the wagon bench, slides over to its edge, and then disembarks.
We offer him several goodbyes of varying intensity as he reaches the edge of the road and continues walking. We watch him for some time, until the progress of the caravan turns out necks to their limits, or the folded canopy at the vehicle's back obscures our view. The others turn back toward one another and their own matters, discussing him for a short while before it peters off.
But as the wagons turn on a bend, I make an effort to stick my head out and crane my neck to catch sight of Elrusyo again.
It takes me a moment to realize that small shape in the distance is him. He must have been sprinting from the moment we pulled our eyes off of him, and then stopped only moment ago, to have gotten that far away in such a short amount of time!
Sarq pokes at the bag left behind nervously for several moments, before finally daring to open it up. Contained within are apparently many vials or strange or pungent liquids- medicines for Sarq to identify if he wants to be able to use them, evidently.
I look back from the strange gift to where I last spotted Elrusyo, and am forced to adjust my gaze by several more degrees. Somehow he's shot ahead even farther across the gently rising and falling alluvium past the edges of the heath. He stumbles, as if again he's just dropped out of a brisk run.
I shut my eyes, and rub them for a long moment.
When again I open them... the speck of a man has crossed the river's westward bend completely. I can scarcely make out any details about him now, except that he's apparently turned around to face me--me specifically, I can sense--and that he is now raising a rather rude gesture toward me on his fingers.
I turn away completely, and allow my strange friend to continue on, unimpeded by the tethers of observation as he forges on westward.
Showing posts with label Elrusyo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Elrusyo. Show all posts
Monday, July 16, 2018
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Looking Southward and Backward, Part 16.
Aside from being somewhat bemused at how peaceably Hraela and the proprietress of the alehouse are parting, I have a good feeling about this morning. I will attempt to gauge how the others are feeling, and try to reconnect with our remaining porters and handlers after the inevitable losses caused by better jobs or duty-shirking at the caravansary. Hopefully I can convince them that despite the odd first day, our future looks good. We can only get farther from the other patrons, and my head can only get better. Right?
... Evidently my positive turn of mood is so sudden, uncharacteristic, and off-putting to my assistants that Sarq fears I'm actually suffering some sort of delirium. He has me on double the rationed amount of water, and is currently letting blood from the arm that I am not using to write. He also seems to be aware of and interested in some of my scar tissue, yet he has pointedly avoided mentioning anything about it. It is as if he realizes that asking that question would get him an answer that he wouldn't want to know.
The grass encroaching on the road beneath us is short but stiff, having been laboriously cut down to size before the first frost stunted it. The blades part like the bristles of a boar-hair brush before our wagon and cart wheels, and they force each man's step ever so slightly to the left or right before yielding. It makes going slow for the moment, but it also gives me time to make a few more observations on Janskurf's Place.
Because of the way it flows around the back of the mound on which the buildings are placed, we did not see the nameless stream which offers the establishment its potable water before. It is already busy with teams of individuals drawing water far to the right-hand side, facing northwest at the moment, and washing clothing or gathering mud toward the left-hand side. Even farther to the left, the river temporarily gives way to a sort of boggy area which, as the wind shifts, is able to be identified as the place where most of the alehouse's waste is dumped. Past that, there are dark pockmarks in slightly more solid ground which I believe to be pits for less liquid waste. It's an unpleasant-looking mire, but surprisingly small considering the volume of people concentrated in the area. I wonder how they've kept the entire region from turning into a cesspit. I wonder if anyone lives close enough downstream to have to worry about the same.
The aforementioned mud gathered from the river bend in pails or tightly woven baskets is carried over to a cleared, level area surrounding an outdoor kiln. There, a clay is processed out of it, after adding firesand taken from powdering the ever-present fragments of broken ceramic from older drinking vessels. An ingenious bit of recycling that ensures new mugs are made quickly and at least somewhat sturdily. Any clay that isn't shaped into vessels to be fired is carted over to the rears of the buildings, to be applied as needed to the wattling and daubing that makes up many of the more "traditional" wall exteriors.
I am remound of the beautiful variety of mediums that people across the world use when building homes for themselves, and how lost on the denizens of the city tiers that beauty must be. I can't deny that Deneroth is a marvel- it is, and a beauty to behold, in the right light. But the uniform grey and white of every perfectly symmetrical ring can make a person yearn for muddy hands and thatching allergies. A thought returns to me of my first day in Deneroth, and how I went wandering back and forth around the second-lowest tier in search of the residence of my new adoptive patrons. It took seven hours for me to pick out the correct identical townhouse with front-central atrium and prestigious pig ornaments. Fortunately, we will have to deal with neither grit nor greyscapes where we are going next. Porylus was originally designed as a lesser sibling to the campus of the ITU, and even when its architecture grew out of the founders' control and blossomed into a genuine city, it retained a bit of that spacious disorganization.
I wouldn't mind hay fever and a stuffy nose right now, however. We're passing close to the gong-bog, and everyone but Elrusyo is covering their faces against the foul air. Even Sarq has given up treating me for the moment and has allowed me to clothe my dressed forearm now that my mood has been safely lowered.
Elrusyo of course seems unperturbed, but also seems to be waiting expectantly for something.
I dearly hope he isn't planning another prank.
... Evidently my positive turn of mood is so sudden, uncharacteristic, and off-putting to my assistants that Sarq fears I'm actually suffering some sort of delirium. He has me on double the rationed amount of water, and is currently letting blood from the arm that I am not using to write. He also seems to be aware of and interested in some of my scar tissue, yet he has pointedly avoided mentioning anything about it. It is as if he realizes that asking that question would get him an answer that he wouldn't want to know.
The grass encroaching on the road beneath us is short but stiff, having been laboriously cut down to size before the first frost stunted it. The blades part like the bristles of a boar-hair brush before our wagon and cart wheels, and they force each man's step ever so slightly to the left or right before yielding. It makes going slow for the moment, but it also gives me time to make a few more observations on Janskurf's Place.
Because of the way it flows around the back of the mound on which the buildings are placed, we did not see the nameless stream which offers the establishment its potable water before. It is already busy with teams of individuals drawing water far to the right-hand side, facing northwest at the moment, and washing clothing or gathering mud toward the left-hand side. Even farther to the left, the river temporarily gives way to a sort of boggy area which, as the wind shifts, is able to be identified as the place where most of the alehouse's waste is dumped. Past that, there are dark pockmarks in slightly more solid ground which I believe to be pits for less liquid waste. It's an unpleasant-looking mire, but surprisingly small considering the volume of people concentrated in the area. I wonder how they've kept the entire region from turning into a cesspit. I wonder if anyone lives close enough downstream to have to worry about the same.
The aforementioned mud gathered from the river bend in pails or tightly woven baskets is carried over to a cleared, level area surrounding an outdoor kiln. There, a clay is processed out of it, after adding firesand taken from powdering the ever-present fragments of broken ceramic from older drinking vessels. An ingenious bit of recycling that ensures new mugs are made quickly and at least somewhat sturdily. Any clay that isn't shaped into vessels to be fired is carted over to the rears of the buildings, to be applied as needed to the wattling and daubing that makes up many of the more "traditional" wall exteriors.
I am remound of the beautiful variety of mediums that people across the world use when building homes for themselves, and how lost on the denizens of the city tiers that beauty must be. I can't deny that Deneroth is a marvel- it is, and a beauty to behold, in the right light. But the uniform grey and white of every perfectly symmetrical ring can make a person yearn for muddy hands and thatching allergies. A thought returns to me of my first day in Deneroth, and how I went wandering back and forth around the second-lowest tier in search of the residence of my new adoptive patrons. It took seven hours for me to pick out the correct identical townhouse with front-central atrium and prestigious pig ornaments. Fortunately, we will have to deal with neither grit nor greyscapes where we are going next. Porylus was originally designed as a lesser sibling to the campus of the ITU, and even when its architecture grew out of the founders' control and blossomed into a genuine city, it retained a bit of that spacious disorganization.
I wouldn't mind hay fever and a stuffy nose right now, however. We're passing close to the gong-bog, and everyone but Elrusyo is covering their faces against the foul air. Even Sarq has given up treating me for the moment and has allowed me to clothe my dressed forearm now that my mood has been safely lowered.
Elrusyo of course seems unperturbed, but also seems to be waiting expectantly for something.
I dearly hope he isn't planning another prank.
Thursday, May 10, 2018
Looking Southward and Backward, Part 14.
"Rob. Robber. Bert. Oi. Staircase Man. Litte!"
A voice finally penetrates my concentration, and a slap on the back of the shoulder punctuates my writing with a very messy scrawl of ink across the page. I look up and back from my isolated corner of a table to see--to no surprise--that Elrusyo is standing over me with four clay mugs of something frothy and dark-colored in each of them. He sits down immediately next to me, and I must pull my parchments and papers up out of the way of a slosh of the odorous liquid which falls to greet the worn old wooden surface.
"Are you going to sit there writing about the carnal exploits of other men all night, or are you finally going to do something worth writing about for yourself? Eh?"
One finger thrusts across the room a ways, toward another table which is mostly populated by women- apparently off-duty locals and members of the family, if the garish and historically inaccurate winged helmets and metallic braziers in their possessions are any indication. Several cups have been emptied already, and their giggling at the male patrons seems to have shifted from career-mandated to genuine. I look back to Elrusyo to see if he is being absolutely serious or not. The half-waggle of an eyebrow and the earnest grin tell me that he is in deed being serious- and that he is already drunk, despite our being seated here for less than an hour.
I ask him what he has done with the wards under my protection, which only causes his smile to widen and deepen in jolliness.
"Stitch Boy and Reed-Neck are currently enjoying the finer points of an education in drinking culture. Haven't you been hearing them?"
A few seconds after this, there comes a clinking of drinking vessels louder and more emphatic than the rest from further down the hall, followed by a mangled pronunciation of one of the many Gertish toasts to good health.
"Poortz!"
Elrusyo smirks in satisfaction. I take in a deep breath and tensely ask where the rest are.
"The big girl didn't take a liking to any of that, so she got up and said she's looking for the brew-mistress to give her a piece of her mind on all of this. I came over here because you just so happen to be in the perfect spot from which to enjoy the show, and dodge any projectiles."
I make the smudge across the bottom of my last parchment even worse with a resulting forehead-thump of defeat. He gives me another pat on the back, less roughly this time.
"Drink up now, or it's going to be a long night. The boys and their horses will be ready an hour after dawn tomorrow. Did you lot really get them driving through the frost at sunrise this morning? Your campus is run by slavers."
Elrusyo slides one mug toward me despite my protests. But before I am able to both sympathize with his observation and point out that I know better than anyone else the reality of the statement, something catches my eye.
Or rather, the complete lack of something.
In lifting up his mug in order to take a swig, Elrusyo's sleeve falls down along his arm somewhat. Across the inside of his wrist I see nothing but smooth, unblemished skin, interrupted only by a few spots where stitches have mostly been forced out entirely by new skin growth. I reach out to seize his arm, spilling more beer and evoking his protests in the process. Even as I question the directness of my own actions, I pull his sleeve down farther.
Sure enough, it is as if he never sustained a wound to the forearm.
He had been nursing a savage injury up until the very moment I had taken my eyes off of him earlier this afternoon. What could he have possibly done in the time between my sitting down and now?
I look up into his eyes in disbelief, looking for answers. Had he faked it? Was it all a ruse?
He plucks the twine from his skin, discards it, and tips his mug back once more. The glint from before remains in his eyes.
"Just drink up, Ber."
I stare down into the dark, foamy surface of my mug. The first sip feels like trying to swallow an entire loaf of seed bread.
A voice finally penetrates my concentration, and a slap on the back of the shoulder punctuates my writing with a very messy scrawl of ink across the page. I look up and back from my isolated corner of a table to see--to no surprise--that Elrusyo is standing over me with four clay mugs of something frothy and dark-colored in each of them. He sits down immediately next to me, and I must pull my parchments and papers up out of the way of a slosh of the odorous liquid which falls to greet the worn old wooden surface.
"Are you going to sit there writing about the carnal exploits of other men all night, or are you finally going to do something worth writing about for yourself? Eh?"
One finger thrusts across the room a ways, toward another table which is mostly populated by women- apparently off-duty locals and members of the family, if the garish and historically inaccurate winged helmets and metallic braziers in their possessions are any indication. Several cups have been emptied already, and their giggling at the male patrons seems to have shifted from career-mandated to genuine. I look back to Elrusyo to see if he is being absolutely serious or not. The half-waggle of an eyebrow and the earnest grin tell me that he is in deed being serious- and that he is already drunk, despite our being seated here for less than an hour.
I ask him what he has done with the wards under my protection, which only causes his smile to widen and deepen in jolliness.
"Stitch Boy and Reed-Neck are currently enjoying the finer points of an education in drinking culture. Haven't you been hearing them?"
A few seconds after this, there comes a clinking of drinking vessels louder and more emphatic than the rest from further down the hall, followed by a mangled pronunciation of one of the many Gertish toasts to good health.
"Poortz!"
Elrusyo smirks in satisfaction. I take in a deep breath and tensely ask where the rest are.
"The big girl didn't take a liking to any of that, so she got up and said she's looking for the brew-mistress to give her a piece of her mind on all of this. I came over here because you just so happen to be in the perfect spot from which to enjoy the show, and dodge any projectiles."
I make the smudge across the bottom of my last parchment even worse with a resulting forehead-thump of defeat. He gives me another pat on the back, less roughly this time.
"Drink up now, or it's going to be a long night. The boys and their horses will be ready an hour after dawn tomorrow. Did you lot really get them driving through the frost at sunrise this morning? Your campus is run by slavers."
Elrusyo slides one mug toward me despite my protests. But before I am able to both sympathize with his observation and point out that I know better than anyone else the reality of the statement, something catches my eye.
Or rather, the complete lack of something.
In lifting up his mug in order to take a swig, Elrusyo's sleeve falls down along his arm somewhat. Across the inside of his wrist I see nothing but smooth, unblemished skin, interrupted only by a few spots where stitches have mostly been forced out entirely by new skin growth. I reach out to seize his arm, spilling more beer and evoking his protests in the process. Even as I question the directness of my own actions, I pull his sleeve down farther.
Sure enough, it is as if he never sustained a wound to the forearm.
He had been nursing a savage injury up until the very moment I had taken my eyes off of him earlier this afternoon. What could he have possibly done in the time between my sitting down and now?
I look up into his eyes in disbelief, looking for answers. Had he faked it? Was it all a ruse?
He plucks the twine from his skin, discards it, and tips his mug back once more. The glint from before remains in his eyes.
"Just drink up, Ber."
I stare down into the dark, foamy surface of my mug. The first sip feels like trying to swallow an entire loaf of seed bread.
Friday, March 23, 2018
Looking Southward and Backward, Part 12.
Out here, we are utterly exposed. The wind is dying down by itself, but it can be legendarily powerful across these flatlands. Once upon a time, this whole area was the heartland of pastoralists of varying sorts. First the Ersuunians, then the Haraalians and their kin, grazed vast herds of cattle as well as horses in between the patches of intense hill-country which dominate the imagination of many people confined to the walls of their towns and cities. Indeed, the homelands of the hillfolk are grand and extensive, but the plains which surround them are what allowed for the formation of those first nomad confederations which would eventually give rise to the urban existence which so many of us enjoy.
Even after their fences and tents were traded in for walls and buildings with stone foundations, the hooves of beasts trod over these regions in uncountable numbers along the borders of vast farming estates built to feed burgeoning polities. It was only when the Rupture occurred, and vast areas of grassland were subject to killing frosts the likes of which had not been seen before, did their numbers dwindle. And when they did fall, they plummeted, for the herds and their owners had multiplied and gorged for uninterrupted centuries. Even now, a few hundred years after that winter of winters, local belief holds that one cannot drive into the topsoil with a plowshare anywhere in the south-central plains without striking the skull of a bull.
Not that there is much driving of plowshares around here these days. Many areas are still given to dirt so loose that it blows away on windy days such as this, and deeper soil still possesses that imperceptible taint of overuse. The land that may still be good for hardier crop-raising would have to be reclaimed from the wild first, for the old towns--such as the one purportedly erected alongside Janskurf's Place--crumbled away into nothingness long ago. Deneroth, rather than investing in the risky venture, has opted to feed itself primarily through trade- even as it rulers bemoan the loss of territory and loudly champion returning to the territorial integrity of the old days. Still, the dirt road is wide enough for wagons going both ways at once, attesting to the stubborn regularity of trade from the south.
A peculiar aisle of raised ground divides the two horse paths, dotted with the same tall, tough grasses which surround us. I am remound of the details of one of the accounts of the palace of Haraal, as penned by one of the personal scribe-assistants of Laizij himself. Supposedly for a whole mile leading up to the entrance to the ill-fated stronghold, two roads positioned closely together like this were divided by a pair of tapestries of immense length and height. Woven upon each face was all of the accomplishments of the godlike emperor, oriented so that they could be read while approaching from one road and while leaving along the other. Every day they were being dragged forward or back as new chapters of his greatness were added, lengthening the tapestries while ensuring that they remained perfect, if flipped mirrors of one another.¹
Up ahead, at the highest point on a gentle slope, we can now see the dark timbers of Janskurf's Place. It rises up out of the least inviting-looking patch of heath in the entire land, perhaps a result of one clever bit of business acumen- the worse the environment looks around it, the more inviting and safe the old tavern seems by comparison. The two halves of the road merge together before it and pinch inward as they lead toward it and the structures nearby. The roadside sign we are nearing now is even larger than I had pictured, standing easily twice as high as I do. Elrusyo lightly elbows me and grins as we come close enough for Hraela to recognize that the sensationalist Denerothi Ersuut engravings upon the sign are not even accompanied by anything in a known Gertish dialect.
She is not amused.
¹ I am also remound of one infamous passage described in The Attestations of Itraszes, in which one of the tapestries miraculously transformed to reveal the future of the empire on the night of Haraal's disappearance, describing in grizzly detail all of the plagues, catastrophes, and evils to be visited upon its peoples. The Attestations only surfaced about a century after the ruler departed from his realm, but it was accepted as true enough to be used as an argument for the deification and veneration of Haraal. While I am no expert on topography, I can somewhat confidently state that these plains have not yet been swallowed up by an ever-expanding lake of black fire, causing me to cast some of my own humble skepticism upon the prophesies.
Even after their fences and tents were traded in for walls and buildings with stone foundations, the hooves of beasts trod over these regions in uncountable numbers along the borders of vast farming estates built to feed burgeoning polities. It was only when the Rupture occurred, and vast areas of grassland were subject to killing frosts the likes of which had not been seen before, did their numbers dwindle. And when they did fall, they plummeted, for the herds and their owners had multiplied and gorged for uninterrupted centuries. Even now, a few hundred years after that winter of winters, local belief holds that one cannot drive into the topsoil with a plowshare anywhere in the south-central plains without striking the skull of a bull.
Not that there is much driving of plowshares around here these days. Many areas are still given to dirt so loose that it blows away on windy days such as this, and deeper soil still possesses that imperceptible taint of overuse. The land that may still be good for hardier crop-raising would have to be reclaimed from the wild first, for the old towns--such as the one purportedly erected alongside Janskurf's Place--crumbled away into nothingness long ago. Deneroth, rather than investing in the risky venture, has opted to feed itself primarily through trade- even as it rulers bemoan the loss of territory and loudly champion returning to the territorial integrity of the old days. Still, the dirt road is wide enough for wagons going both ways at once, attesting to the stubborn regularity of trade from the south.
A peculiar aisle of raised ground divides the two horse paths, dotted with the same tall, tough grasses which surround us. I am remound of the details of one of the accounts of the palace of Haraal, as penned by one of the personal scribe-assistants of Laizij himself. Supposedly for a whole mile leading up to the entrance to the ill-fated stronghold, two roads positioned closely together like this were divided by a pair of tapestries of immense length and height. Woven upon each face was all of the accomplishments of the godlike emperor, oriented so that they could be read while approaching from one road and while leaving along the other. Every day they were being dragged forward or back as new chapters of his greatness were added, lengthening the tapestries while ensuring that they remained perfect, if flipped mirrors of one another.¹
Up ahead, at the highest point on a gentle slope, we can now see the dark timbers of Janskurf's Place. It rises up out of the least inviting-looking patch of heath in the entire land, perhaps a result of one clever bit of business acumen- the worse the environment looks around it, the more inviting and safe the old tavern seems by comparison. The two halves of the road merge together before it and pinch inward as they lead toward it and the structures nearby. The roadside sign we are nearing now is even larger than I had pictured, standing easily twice as high as I do. Elrusyo lightly elbows me and grins as we come close enough for Hraela to recognize that the sensationalist Denerothi Ersuut engravings upon the sign are not even accompanied by anything in a known Gertish dialect.
She is not amused.
¹ I am also remound of one infamous passage described in The Attestations of Itraszes, in which one of the tapestries miraculously transformed to reveal the future of the empire on the night of Haraal's disappearance, describing in grizzly detail all of the plagues, catastrophes, and evils to be visited upon its peoples. The Attestations only surfaced about a century after the ruler departed from his realm, but it was accepted as true enough to be used as an argument for the deification and veneration of Haraal. While I am no expert on topography, I can somewhat confidently state that these plains have not yet been swallowed up by an ever-expanding lake of black fire, causing me to cast some of my own humble skepticism upon the prophesies.
Saturday, March 17, 2018
Looking Southward and Backward, Part 11.
Sarq shakily accepted Elrusyo's hand, and the two shook vigorously for several seconds as the hedge-magician drew his self-injured arm back in under his cloak. He then shook hands with Hraela and Ciudo, and I was forced to oblige as well, and in the subsequent moments of celebration in which the rest of the caravan's nerves became somewhat more settled, another shot of drink went around.
Now, after sputtering fire for a second time this day, I am attempting to balance out the alcohol with water from a skin which simply insists upon dripping dangerously close to the fresh ink on my parchments. Seeing that there simply will be no stopping me, as I have come to accept in return with him, Elrusyo asks that I at least scribble something of value while I do. At the conclusion of the first day of this little travelogue, which we are already nearing, he states that he has a very important bit of history to initiate each of us into. Each of us save for Hraela, he makes a note of. She would already be very familiar with this, considering her family roots. This suggestion leaves her looking somewhat bemused. Ciudo and Sarq quietly worry that this is another child-burning celebration.
Elrusyo laughs, but does not say no.
I know what he has in mind, however. I had hoped that it would only be a brief stop for our caravan, but it is apparent that our attendants are itching to overnight at the very same place. I speak of course of the southernmost of all "authentic-styled" Gertish¹ alehouses in the domain claimed by the city-state of Deneroth; Janskurf's Severed Toe, also known as Janskurf's Place.
Janskurf, according to the legend emblazoned on a large wood-and-metal plaque displayed prominently upon the alehouse's roadside sign as well as one of the walls of its common room, was a Gertish hero from the lifetime of Haraal himself. He led a clan of Gertish tribesmen down from the northern coasts to fight for the emperor, and was involved in a famous battle with the classic villains and scapegoats of the empire, an army of Esgodarrans. This teeming horde of hill-people, however, was reportedly unique in that it was aided by a contingent of "treasonous mountain-slingers" commonly identified as either Pach-Pah soldiers from a splinter faction allied with the locals to their north, or as a mercenary group composed largely of individuals of mixed ethnic background.²
As the story goes, Janskurf led his people to a quick and decisive victory over his opponents, but when they feigned surrender, he was struck across the temple by a sling bullet and then chopped upon the foot while he was stunned. They still won the battle, but Janskurf lost his big toe. Hobbled for the rest of his life, Janskurf and some of his people settled the site of their victory and built a small town. When Janskurf died at the ripe old age of over two hundred years, the resentful Esgodarrans naturally invaded once more and tried to raze the town to the ground, but much to their horror his ghost rose up to defend the alehouse under which he had been buried. And so it still stands to this day.
Of course, there is no great battle between Esgodarrans and Gertish tribesmen on the southern border of what would become Deneroth in any historical record but what the establishment claims. Likewise, it is doubtful that a prominent man named Janskurf ever lived among the Gerts who allied with the Haraalians, or elsewhere for that matter, considering the fact that it is by all accounts a gibberish name only vaguely identifiable as "Gertish-enough" by an outsider with an eye for stereotypes. And as a matter of fact, the "traditional" beer and ale culture of the Gertish people is almost wholly a result of centuries of interactions with their southern neighbors- an emphatic consensus by indigenous groups and travelers to the low riverlands alike is that the "original" Gertish drink of choice is a spirit distilled from a wide variety of vegetation known to their homes. If the blindingly blonde wigs worn by many of the attendants of that establishment are any indication, the locals might not even care about the inaccuracies, if they do know.
Though I wish there were a gentler way of saying it, the Ivory Tower University's recent close examination of the alehouse and its history was completely accurate in saying that Janskurf's Severed Toe is little more than a culture-appropriating tourist trap geared to play off of the expectations and ignorances of traveling city-dwellers and University students alike.
I can see the land flattening out up ahead as we enter the broad section of heath in which the alehouse and attached caravansary are located. I should find a way to approach the subject with Hraela tactfully while there is still time, lest someone or something end up with a longsword driven through it this evening.
¹ Note that I have changed over from "Gertisch" to "Gertish" and will attempt to remain that way for the remainder of my journey. Confined to the University as I so often am, it is difficult to resist the hypercorrective pull of the -isch ending, which was made standard in all academic material some five generations ago by the short-lived yet deeply impactful Committee for Agreeable Exonyms. They hold no power over me here however, and so I shall endeavor to use the more common rendering of the adjective, in keeping with my hopes of making this work more approachable to people living beyond the vaunted walls of my home city.
² As will become apparent as we near this expedition's destination, our peoples are more than capable of intermingling, and many marriages or other productive pairings of the sort have occurred in the border regions between mountain and lowland over the centuries. Though mildly stigmatized in the north, these folk face relatively little discrimination from their southerly parentage. In particular, the descendants of former Pach-Pah noble families were quick to infuse their family lines with as much "new blood" as possible once the practice of enforced intra-familial marriage came crashing to an end. The safe assumption that someone two to three feet taller than oneself and born hundreds of miles away was probably not a relative became an important guideline for courtship in those lineages of diminishing status following the revolution(s).
Now, after sputtering fire for a second time this day, I am attempting to balance out the alcohol with water from a skin which simply insists upon dripping dangerously close to the fresh ink on my parchments. Seeing that there simply will be no stopping me, as I have come to accept in return with him, Elrusyo asks that I at least scribble something of value while I do. At the conclusion of the first day of this little travelogue, which we are already nearing, he states that he has a very important bit of history to initiate each of us into. Each of us save for Hraela, he makes a note of. She would already be very familiar with this, considering her family roots. This suggestion leaves her looking somewhat bemused. Ciudo and Sarq quietly worry that this is another child-burning celebration.
Elrusyo laughs, but does not say no.
I know what he has in mind, however. I had hoped that it would only be a brief stop for our caravan, but it is apparent that our attendants are itching to overnight at the very same place. I speak of course of the southernmost of all "authentic-styled" Gertish¹ alehouses in the domain claimed by the city-state of Deneroth; Janskurf's Severed Toe, also known as Janskurf's Place.
Janskurf, according to the legend emblazoned on a large wood-and-metal plaque displayed prominently upon the alehouse's roadside sign as well as one of the walls of its common room, was a Gertish hero from the lifetime of Haraal himself. He led a clan of Gertish tribesmen down from the northern coasts to fight for the emperor, and was involved in a famous battle with the classic villains and scapegoats of the empire, an army of Esgodarrans. This teeming horde of hill-people, however, was reportedly unique in that it was aided by a contingent of "treasonous mountain-slingers" commonly identified as either Pach-Pah soldiers from a splinter faction allied with the locals to their north, or as a mercenary group composed largely of individuals of mixed ethnic background.²
As the story goes, Janskurf led his people to a quick and decisive victory over his opponents, but when they feigned surrender, he was struck across the temple by a sling bullet and then chopped upon the foot while he was stunned. They still won the battle, but Janskurf lost his big toe. Hobbled for the rest of his life, Janskurf and some of his people settled the site of their victory and built a small town. When Janskurf died at the ripe old age of over two hundred years, the resentful Esgodarrans naturally invaded once more and tried to raze the town to the ground, but much to their horror his ghost rose up to defend the alehouse under which he had been buried. And so it still stands to this day.
Of course, there is no great battle between Esgodarrans and Gertish tribesmen on the southern border of what would become Deneroth in any historical record but what the establishment claims. Likewise, it is doubtful that a prominent man named Janskurf ever lived among the Gerts who allied with the Haraalians, or elsewhere for that matter, considering the fact that it is by all accounts a gibberish name only vaguely identifiable as "Gertish-enough" by an outsider with an eye for stereotypes. And as a matter of fact, the "traditional" beer and ale culture of the Gertish people is almost wholly a result of centuries of interactions with their southern neighbors- an emphatic consensus by indigenous groups and travelers to the low riverlands alike is that the "original" Gertish drink of choice is a spirit distilled from a wide variety of vegetation known to their homes. If the blindingly blonde wigs worn by many of the attendants of that establishment are any indication, the locals might not even care about the inaccuracies, if they do know.
Though I wish there were a gentler way of saying it, the Ivory Tower University's recent close examination of the alehouse and its history was completely accurate in saying that Janskurf's Severed Toe is little more than a culture-appropriating tourist trap geared to play off of the expectations and ignorances of traveling city-dwellers and University students alike.
I can see the land flattening out up ahead as we enter the broad section of heath in which the alehouse and attached caravansary are located. I should find a way to approach the subject with Hraela tactfully while there is still time, lest someone or something end up with a longsword driven through it this evening.
¹ Note that I have changed over from "Gertisch" to "Gertish" and will attempt to remain that way for the remainder of my journey. Confined to the University as I so often am, it is difficult to resist the hypercorrective pull of the -isch ending, which was made standard in all academic material some five generations ago by the short-lived yet deeply impactful Committee for Agreeable Exonyms. They hold no power over me here however, and so I shall endeavor to use the more common rendering of the adjective, in keeping with my hopes of making this work more approachable to people living beyond the vaunted walls of my home city.
² As will become apparent as we near this expedition's destination, our peoples are more than capable of intermingling, and many marriages or other productive pairings of the sort have occurred in the border regions between mountain and lowland over the centuries. Though mildly stigmatized in the north, these folk face relatively little discrimination from their southerly parentage. In particular, the descendants of former Pach-Pah noble families were quick to infuse their family lines with as much "new blood" as possible once the practice of enforced intra-familial marriage came crashing to an end. The safe assumption that someone two to three feet taller than oneself and born hundreds of miles away was probably not a relative became an important guideline for courtship in those lineages of diminishing status following the revolution(s).
Monday, March 5, 2018
Looking Southward and Backward, Part 10.
Sarq seems nearly to faint for a moment, though likely more from disbelief at what Elrusyo has done, than from actual distress at the sight of blood. He shakes off his nonplussed shackles after a few moments in a scramble of quick movement which too, in a few moments, he fights against. Something approaching a focused calm comes over him, and a not-quite-authoritative voice comes from his mouth as he requests this, that, or the other thing of Ciudo and Hraela- his bewildered, brand new surgical assistants, it would seem.
They both shift closer to the flanks of their beleaguered colleague and offer what assistance they can- an apparently permissible act in Elrusyo's eyes, and an effective utilization of the resources at hand. Ciudo looks the most morose now, being unused to such carnage, but he tries to keep a steady hand as he fishes around for the proper tools and implements packed away in Sarq's small cases. Hraela seems more annoyed that they must now dote on this disagreeable man than bothered at the blood. Before long she subsumes her distaste underneath classic Gertisch stoicism- which is to say, she offers her silent, withering glare to everyone-and-thing, and not only their patient. She does however look favorably upon the bloody blade belonging to Elrusyo which sits nearby. Whether because of its craftsmanship, or the way he handled it, I cannot say.
Elrusyo himself seems to demonstrate the greatest self-control and composure of anyone in this cart, both myself and even the draft horse included. His fingers occasionally twitch and spasm as if from damaged and misfiring musculature, but from the elbow up he remains absolutely cool and composed. He even continues to offer casual advice and commentary to Sarq, though he keeps returning to the passage of time as imperative. The dark blood running from his self-inflicted wound is now forming a small puddle in between our huddled bodies.
"Careful with that tourniquet now, boy. Do you want me to permanently lose the use of my fingers?"
"It would be admirable of your foresight to get someone looking for an artery clamp or two."
"While it is permissible in this short-term scenario, I loathe to imagine what corruption that thing could cause without proper cleaning."
"Excuse me, nurse, could I please get a warm, damp towel on the brow? I am feeling a little faint and clammy... Oh come now, you feisty Gert. I was not singling you out for your womanhood! In fact, I was referring to your mute little linguist and trying to get him to speak up finally."
"Gah, careful with that! Apply the antiseptic, don't drown me in it! And don't you hold out on me, either. A patient--and their doctor--benefit far more from sharing a shot or two than any medical institution will admit. Come to think of it, just give everyone here a round. Especially if it will shut Robber's damned quill up."
The initial time limit is beaten, with the worst of the bleeding stopping before the pool of blood becomes frighteningly large. Still, the reek of iron is strong enough for people up and down the line to turn and wonder what is happening, and Elrusyo himself seems pale, weakened, and even a little quiet. Esgodarran brandy burns my throat and stomach, but enough that I am able to pretend it is fortifying me against the cold wind which still dips down through the high, hilly valleys to whip across our caravan.
But the real work of knitting everything else together begins now, and is far more grueling. It seems to be that Sarq has forgotten exactly what was requested of him, but Elrusyo does not seem inclined to stop him if he is indeed on a roll. Muscle, sinew, and skin will have to come together of its own accord, if it will at all, but steps can still be taken to foster it.
So involved is he, that he doesn't even notice the way his assistants shift away down the bench once more.
Or the fact that the other arm belonging to the hedge magician is now raised, hand extended to receive and shake the medic's. Elrusyo smiles the sort of smile normally reserved for professional False City grifters.
They both shift closer to the flanks of their beleaguered colleague and offer what assistance they can- an apparently permissible act in Elrusyo's eyes, and an effective utilization of the resources at hand. Ciudo looks the most morose now, being unused to such carnage, but he tries to keep a steady hand as he fishes around for the proper tools and implements packed away in Sarq's small cases. Hraela seems more annoyed that they must now dote on this disagreeable man than bothered at the blood. Before long she subsumes her distaste underneath classic Gertisch stoicism- which is to say, she offers her silent, withering glare to everyone-and-thing, and not only their patient. She does however look favorably upon the bloody blade belonging to Elrusyo which sits nearby. Whether because of its craftsmanship, or the way he handled it, I cannot say.
Elrusyo himself seems to demonstrate the greatest self-control and composure of anyone in this cart, both myself and even the draft horse included. His fingers occasionally twitch and spasm as if from damaged and misfiring musculature, but from the elbow up he remains absolutely cool and composed. He even continues to offer casual advice and commentary to Sarq, though he keeps returning to the passage of time as imperative. The dark blood running from his self-inflicted wound is now forming a small puddle in between our huddled bodies.
"Careful with that tourniquet now, boy. Do you want me to permanently lose the use of my fingers?"
"It would be admirable of your foresight to get someone looking for an artery clamp or two."
"While it is permissible in this short-term scenario, I loathe to imagine what corruption that thing could cause without proper cleaning."
"Excuse me, nurse, could I please get a warm, damp towel on the brow? I am feeling a little faint and clammy... Oh come now, you feisty Gert. I was not singling you out for your womanhood! In fact, I was referring to your mute little linguist and trying to get him to speak up finally."
"Gah, careful with that! Apply the antiseptic, don't drown me in it! And don't you hold out on me, either. A patient--and their doctor--benefit far more from sharing a shot or two than any medical institution will admit. Come to think of it, just give everyone here a round. Especially if it will shut Robber's damned quill up."
The initial time limit is beaten, with the worst of the bleeding stopping before the pool of blood becomes frighteningly large. Still, the reek of iron is strong enough for people up and down the line to turn and wonder what is happening, and Elrusyo himself seems pale, weakened, and even a little quiet. Esgodarran brandy burns my throat and stomach, but enough that I am able to pretend it is fortifying me against the cold wind which still dips down through the high, hilly valleys to whip across our caravan.
But the real work of knitting everything else together begins now, and is far more grueling. It seems to be that Sarq has forgotten exactly what was requested of him, but Elrusyo does not seem inclined to stop him if he is indeed on a roll. Muscle, sinew, and skin will have to come together of its own accord, if it will at all, but steps can still be taken to foster it.
So involved is he, that he doesn't even notice the way his assistants shift away down the bench once more.
Or the fact that the other arm belonging to the hedge magician is now raised, hand extended to receive and shake the medic's. Elrusyo smiles the sort of smile normally reserved for professional False City grifters.
Sunday, February 18, 2018
Looking Southward and Backward, Part 9.
The interrogation began with almost insultingly simple questions, such as how to locate a person's pulse, or what the shapes of leaves of common but irritating vines come in. But they quickly grew more and more difficult, and now Sarq has gone from from quietly suffering through the experience to being significantly more engaged. Now he actually has something to prove, it seems. Elrusyo is delighted at this, even as he produces vial after vial of strange concoctions for our companion to identify and then explain the full and proper use for. Purgatives, topical solutions, ointments, even a narrow glass tube of highly potent and highly illegal analgesic extracted and diluted from crimson honey.
A brief respite plays out now, as Sarq is finally given a chance to take a drink of water and remedy the cotton-mouth his new tutor is afflicting him with through this intensive and unorthodox quizzing. Ciudo and Hraela are both impressed by this point, both by our newcomer and their fellow, and earlier misgivings seem to be banished- or at least temporarily subsumed beneath a lively layer of novelty and spectacle. A bump in the road missed by the carts ahead of and behind us causes water from Sarq's ladle to be thrown up into his face, and so the exam break ends with a chill and some sputtering.
The farther away from the topic of medicine and the use of herbs they move however, the longer Sarq's pauses become, the more uncertain his answers grow. But he hasn't answered incorrectly yet, and Elrusyo seems sensitive to that. He's leaned in now, rapt concentration in his features as he stares almost unblinking at Sarq, as if he were instead listening to a flowing, informed lecture not of his own partial creation. All this does is cause Sarq to sweat more and more, however. He fidgets with his black hair, and one leg bounces up and down unceasingly and unevenly, with the occasional rap of his boot sole sounding dully against the floorboards.
Next comes the treatment of bodily trauma, with issues of blood loss and an avoidance of infection seeming to be of very great importance to Elrusyo. It appears that he also has an... elaborate system developed for the measurement of volumes of blood and other bodily fluids in creatures. A system in which the contents of an average-sized human are the standardized unit of measure. So, for example, as he explains to a bewildered-looking Sarq, one human's worth of blood is equal to two-and-a-half dogs, and the volume of blood carried by the draft horse at the head of our caravan is equal to approximately eleven and one-fifth humans, or "one deca-human plus change" as he puts it.
The cart-drivers within earshot of us are beginning to grow uncomfortable.
Still, Sarq eventually gains a sound grasp of the math, and with a bit of exercise in the physics of liquids, he is able to satisfy Elrusyo's questions regarding exactly how quickly one has to act and what steps must be taken if someone were to sustain severe lacerations of an artery or major vein. He produces objects of his own now, demonstrating that he did not leave home unequipped to deal with such injuries. Somehow, he had managed to obtain a surgery-grade set of tools and many, many yards of bandaging, gauze, and gut string. Neatly tucking it all away after the last nod of acknowledgement from Elrusyo, Sarq seems quite pleased.
Then Elrusyo asks if he's ready to give a demonstration.
Sarq begins to ask what he is talking about, when no one is injured.
Elrusyo pulls back one of the loose sleeves of his coat, reveals the inside of his forearm, and then draws a hitherto-unseen blade from his belt diagonally across it, cutting a fairly deep-looking gash into himself.
"You now have approximately ten minutes to treat your patient before blood loss becomes life-threatening; that's a little over four talecks, for you University kids!" Elrusyo exclaims almost cheerfully as he presents his maimed arm to my trio of horrified companions.
I quietly pull my legs in under myself in order to avoid bloodying my shoes.
A brief respite plays out now, as Sarq is finally given a chance to take a drink of water and remedy the cotton-mouth his new tutor is afflicting him with through this intensive and unorthodox quizzing. Ciudo and Hraela are both impressed by this point, both by our newcomer and their fellow, and earlier misgivings seem to be banished- or at least temporarily subsumed beneath a lively layer of novelty and spectacle. A bump in the road missed by the carts ahead of and behind us causes water from Sarq's ladle to be thrown up into his face, and so the exam break ends with a chill and some sputtering.
The farther away from the topic of medicine and the use of herbs they move however, the longer Sarq's pauses become, the more uncertain his answers grow. But he hasn't answered incorrectly yet, and Elrusyo seems sensitive to that. He's leaned in now, rapt concentration in his features as he stares almost unblinking at Sarq, as if he were instead listening to a flowing, informed lecture not of his own partial creation. All this does is cause Sarq to sweat more and more, however. He fidgets with his black hair, and one leg bounces up and down unceasingly and unevenly, with the occasional rap of his boot sole sounding dully against the floorboards.
Next comes the treatment of bodily trauma, with issues of blood loss and an avoidance of infection seeming to be of very great importance to Elrusyo. It appears that he also has an... elaborate system developed for the measurement of volumes of blood and other bodily fluids in creatures. A system in which the contents of an average-sized human are the standardized unit of measure. So, for example, as he explains to a bewildered-looking Sarq, one human's worth of blood is equal to two-and-a-half dogs, and the volume of blood carried by the draft horse at the head of our caravan is equal to approximately eleven and one-fifth humans, or "one deca-human plus change" as he puts it.
The cart-drivers within earshot of us are beginning to grow uncomfortable.
Still, Sarq eventually gains a sound grasp of the math, and with a bit of exercise in the physics of liquids, he is able to satisfy Elrusyo's questions regarding exactly how quickly one has to act and what steps must be taken if someone were to sustain severe lacerations of an artery or major vein. He produces objects of his own now, demonstrating that he did not leave home unequipped to deal with such injuries. Somehow, he had managed to obtain a surgery-grade set of tools and many, many yards of bandaging, gauze, and gut string. Neatly tucking it all away after the last nod of acknowledgement from Elrusyo, Sarq seems quite pleased.
Then Elrusyo asks if he's ready to give a demonstration.
Sarq begins to ask what he is talking about, when no one is injured.
Elrusyo pulls back one of the loose sleeves of his coat, reveals the inside of his forearm, and then draws a hitherto-unseen blade from his belt diagonally across it, cutting a fairly deep-looking gash into himself.
"You now have approximately ten minutes to treat your patient before blood loss becomes life-threatening; that's a little over four talecks, for you University kids!" Elrusyo exclaims almost cheerfully as he presents his maimed arm to my trio of horrified companions.
I quietly pull my legs in under myself in order to avoid bloodying my shoes.
Saturday, February 10, 2018
Looking Southward and Backward, Part 8.
After properly greeting my long-time quill-companion, Hraela saw fit to sheathe her "practice" longsword and take her seat at the far end of the wagon once more. Though even now, she does not seem very pleased with Elrusyo's presence or continued antics. I find that he is a decent fellow in person, however. We are kindred spirits, after a fashion, with both of us sharing a deep and motivating feeling of frustration with our respective worlds. For Elrusyo, it is the deeply entrenched practices and beliefs which define the use of the supernatural, as well as superstitions and prejudices against it, ultimately resulting in an environment in which an intrinsic and integral part of the world is misunderstood, and access to knowledge of it is limited at best. For me, it is the simultaneous denial and hoarding of more mundane or secular knowledge by certain bureaucratized places of learning.
Hraela does raise a valid question however, breaking the silence which Ciudo and Sarq were awkwardly contributing to for the past several moments. She draws enough of Elrusyo's attention in fact that I have now returned to writing, though now with my off-hand, and a bit more discreetly.¹ Hraela asks how he boarded the wagon unnoticed, why he did so, and what exactly he plans to do now that he's joined us- she could be practicing the flick-release execution of a ranged murder-stroke under the tutelage of her master instead, and she will not have this expedition derailed by witch-men with affectations.
Elrusyo blinks at her, and is silent for a moment. Then he bows his head in acquiescence, but comes back up smiling again in a moment before looking the three of my associates over curiously.
"Oh, she's spirited, 'Ber. You picked your muscle well. I doubt she's the doctor, though. Something about her makes me think she is lacking in... bedside manner." He raises both hands up with flat palms in deference as she once again grips her sword. Now his staff is resting across his front, iron cap glinting dully in the sunlight as we shudder slowly onward. Fortunately our delay did not leave us more than a few moments behind the rest of the caravan.
"Sorry, sorry. But that is why I am here, at least in part. To know that once you've left my territory, you won't be forging headlong over a precipice made slick with blood, tears, and piss. At least, not without someone who can adequately patch you up. Which one of you is the team's medic- this so-called "botanist" among you?" Gradually Elrusyo's tone turns from smalmed and casual to one that is quite serious as he speaks, and his vaguely owl-like eyebrows arch and contort to go along with it. It is enough that, in addition to looking to Sarq, they slightly shift along the bench away from him in either direction. He swallows and hesitantly raises two fingers into the air.
Elrusyo smiles, but doesn't look any less sharp and serious for it.
"Ah! Hello there. Sarq, was it? I understand that all of you have been able to take academic leave because of your outstanding marks back home- is that correct?" Sarq nods without a word.
"Splendid!" He raps his stick on the floor once.
"Well, I have my own exam prepared just for you, and just between you and me, I think it will be a cut above the material they've drilled you on, up in that dingy little glorified steeple of yours. Let's begin now, shall we...?"
¹ It is a little-known fact that, despite the huge amounts of red tape surrounding the veneration or even mention of Dherna in Deneroth, the publicly-available resources used to identify and ferret out potential worshipers of the goddess of confessions and secrets include a wealth of information on how to mimic the high-speed and shorthand writing styles of ordained Guilt-Takers. I quite enjoy it, though it does make sharing rough notes challenging when most other readers can't make front or back of it.
Hraela does raise a valid question however, breaking the silence which Ciudo and Sarq were awkwardly contributing to for the past several moments. She draws enough of Elrusyo's attention in fact that I have now returned to writing, though now with my off-hand, and a bit more discreetly.¹ Hraela asks how he boarded the wagon unnoticed, why he did so, and what exactly he plans to do now that he's joined us- she could be practicing the flick-release execution of a ranged murder-stroke under the tutelage of her master instead, and she will not have this expedition derailed by witch-men with affectations.
Elrusyo blinks at her, and is silent for a moment. Then he bows his head in acquiescence, but comes back up smiling again in a moment before looking the three of my associates over curiously.
"Oh, she's spirited, 'Ber. You picked your muscle well. I doubt she's the doctor, though. Something about her makes me think she is lacking in... bedside manner." He raises both hands up with flat palms in deference as she once again grips her sword. Now his staff is resting across his front, iron cap glinting dully in the sunlight as we shudder slowly onward. Fortunately our delay did not leave us more than a few moments behind the rest of the caravan.
"Sorry, sorry. But that is why I am here, at least in part. To know that once you've left my territory, you won't be forging headlong over a precipice made slick with blood, tears, and piss. At least, not without someone who can adequately patch you up. Which one of you is the team's medic- this so-called "botanist" among you?" Gradually Elrusyo's tone turns from smalmed and casual to one that is quite serious as he speaks, and his vaguely owl-like eyebrows arch and contort to go along with it. It is enough that, in addition to looking to Sarq, they slightly shift along the bench away from him in either direction. He swallows and hesitantly raises two fingers into the air.
Elrusyo smiles, but doesn't look any less sharp and serious for it.
"Ah! Hello there. Sarq, was it? I understand that all of you have been able to take academic leave because of your outstanding marks back home- is that correct?" Sarq nods without a word.
"Splendid!" He raps his stick on the floor once.
"Well, I have my own exam prepared just for you, and just between you and me, I think it will be a cut above the material they've drilled you on, up in that dingy little glorified steeple of yours. Let's begin now, shall we...?"
¹ It is a little-known fact that, despite the huge amounts of red tape surrounding the veneration or even mention of Dherna in Deneroth, the publicly-available resources used to identify and ferret out potential worshipers of the goddess of confessions and secrets include a wealth of information on how to mimic the high-speed and shorthand writing styles of ordained Guilt-Takers. I quite enjoy it, though it does make sharing rough notes challenging when most other readers can't make front or back of it.
Saturday, February 3, 2018
Looking Southward and Backward, Part 7.
We slow to a stop at another small hamlet to water the animals again. It is past noon now, and we've eaten a meager meal while bumping back and forth in our carts, and sipped drinks at calm or still moments. One of the porters, a graying man with a bald patch on top and ruddy skin, enters deeper into the town and apparently runs into friends or family. The sounds of exclamations and calls come from the firmly locked homes as they suddenly open up, and before long no fewer than four or five people are out in the cold talking to him while we stand around and stamp in a line along the road.
I can hear bits of their speech carrying along on the wind, but I cannot understand much of it. Ciudo explains that it seems to be a pidgin of lowland and hill-dweller tongues, but it changes its own grammatical rules so freely from speaker to speaker that he can scarcely tell us what is being discussed, other than that it is some sort of exchange. This bodes somewhat poorly for his ability to assist us with interpretation in the future, given how varied and patchwork the languages of the land can be beyond the institutionalized sterility of Deneroth. But in this instance we are already covered, and I will keep that concern to myself until it might be mollified.
Eventually we witness the outcome of this, or at least one of them. The various locals, family heads apparently, duck back into their homes at length while the ruddy man, now veritably pink in the cold wind, ambles a few steps closer to us as if to move forward on something he is still waiting on. Then the doors open again, and many more people than before exit. They bear bundled rags or sackcloth bags, none of them very large or heavy or filled, but quite a few being produced regardless. These are promptly handed over to the man, and then to the caravan as a whole. He seems quite pleased with himself, and his fellows, previously taciturn from waiting in the cold, seem willing to give him credit as well. Once farewells are taken care of, the sluggish animals are spurred on again, and we slowly wind our way through the hills once more, now beginning to turn due south, and soon southeast.
The cart stores are now just a little bit heavier with dried fish or salted pork, a cask or two of drink with negligible alcoholic content for on-the-job hours, and a handful of other minor conveniences to get us a few miles further.
And, a man.
Sarq was the first to notice him, just sitting in my shadow at the corner of the wagon where the half-erected cover was most tightly bunched up, providing a windbreak for us. Sarq jumped in surprise and alerted the others, and in a moment the vehicle ground to a halt, stalling the rear half of the caravan. I personally had to pick myself up off of the wooden floor and pretend like I had not cracked my elbow on the edge of a seat going down, while turning to address this tag-along whom no one had seen in the hamlet or with the group.
He chuckles, but in the interest of not escalating our confusion into ire and getting beaten by a half-dozen mule-keepers and grumpy students, he shifts down his seat, out of the shade, and lifts his face up to be seen clearly.
He is... scruffy, in one word. Unshaven, but not given to an actual beard yet either, to give several more. Black hair comes down to his shoulders, a slightly out-of-place tooth juts inward from his smile, his gnarled and pigment-stained fingers clutch a walking stick with an iron cap on one end, and his cloak half-conceals an abundance of small packs, pouches, pockets, and utilities hanging from or sewn into his woolen attire.
He is, as had been foretold, excruciatingly Elrusyo-like, and he reaches out to shake my hand even as he tells me to put down that poor, abused quill and stop scribbling like a Low-Court proceedings recorder.
I can hear bits of their speech carrying along on the wind, but I cannot understand much of it. Ciudo explains that it seems to be a pidgin of lowland and hill-dweller tongues, but it changes its own grammatical rules so freely from speaker to speaker that he can scarcely tell us what is being discussed, other than that it is some sort of exchange. This bodes somewhat poorly for his ability to assist us with interpretation in the future, given how varied and patchwork the languages of the land can be beyond the institutionalized sterility of Deneroth. But in this instance we are already covered, and I will keep that concern to myself until it might be mollified.
Eventually we witness the outcome of this, or at least one of them. The various locals, family heads apparently, duck back into their homes at length while the ruddy man, now veritably pink in the cold wind, ambles a few steps closer to us as if to move forward on something he is still waiting on. Then the doors open again, and many more people than before exit. They bear bundled rags or sackcloth bags, none of them very large or heavy or filled, but quite a few being produced regardless. These are promptly handed over to the man, and then to the caravan as a whole. He seems quite pleased with himself, and his fellows, previously taciturn from waiting in the cold, seem willing to give him credit as well. Once farewells are taken care of, the sluggish animals are spurred on again, and we slowly wind our way through the hills once more, now beginning to turn due south, and soon southeast.
The cart stores are now just a little bit heavier with dried fish or salted pork, a cask or two of drink with negligible alcoholic content for on-the-job hours, and a handful of other minor conveniences to get us a few miles further.
And, a man.
Sarq was the first to notice him, just sitting in my shadow at the corner of the wagon where the half-erected cover was most tightly bunched up, providing a windbreak for us. Sarq jumped in surprise and alerted the others, and in a moment the vehicle ground to a halt, stalling the rear half of the caravan. I personally had to pick myself up off of the wooden floor and pretend like I had not cracked my elbow on the edge of a seat going down, while turning to address this tag-along whom no one had seen in the hamlet or with the group.
He chuckles, but in the interest of not escalating our confusion into ire and getting beaten by a half-dozen mule-keepers and grumpy students, he shifts down his seat, out of the shade, and lifts his face up to be seen clearly.
He is... scruffy, in one word. Unshaven, but not given to an actual beard yet either, to give several more. Black hair comes down to his shoulders, a slightly out-of-place tooth juts inward from his smile, his gnarled and pigment-stained fingers clutch a walking stick with an iron cap on one end, and his cloak half-conceals an abundance of small packs, pouches, pockets, and utilities hanging from or sewn into his woolen attire.
He is, as had been foretold, excruciatingly Elrusyo-like, and he reaches out to shake my hand even as he tells me to put down that poor, abused quill and stop scribbling like a Low-Court proceedings recorder.
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