Title: In the Woods far to the South
Description: Dibs, Taiaka & You? PM to enter
Ferdibrand - February 7, 2008 04:49 AM (GMT)
Having sunk beyond the horizon far behind him, Ferdibrand Rumble leant his head against the rim of the shield strapped to his back, and put the splendour of the Sanctuary of Angels out of his mind. Never had he been so bewildered by any place, though he had roamed across knife's edge mountain ridges where there was naught on each side of him but the horizon, and nothing below him but a foots' width of rock, and roiling clouds. Such perils he unflinchingly dared.
Ferdibrand, Dibs, Rumble was many things, but a man of the city he was not.
When, upon leaving the city he reunited with his war-horse, Erling, he had felt something of a flood of relief. Of course the gray destrier had proceeded not a moment later to shove Ferdibrand, who stood only knee high to his horse, with a gargantuan muzzle sending the grimly acquiescent hobbit-ranger hurtling through the air, and skidding across the courtyard like an upside-down tortoise. He grinned up at the milk-maids into whose skirts he had skidded, and flailed and flapped until he could get onto his side.
Shaking his head, not bothering to wipe the straw or goat-manure from his hardy leathers, Ferdibrand caught hold of Erlings' reigns and limped off with the sun upon his right shoulder."Come on you old rogue." He clucked, ignoring the great silvery lips that tugged at the back of his hair.
Ferdibrand could not say precisely what had drawn him toward the great city; not with his deep-seated convictions about any place with too many Big People, and all too little Hobbit-sense between them. From the temple of life he looked to one side, and saw from the resplendent steps a lone tree, old as Ferdibrand could guess, and leaning crookedly from the ruins of some forgotten temple.
To his considerable surprise the mark upon the broken door, which opened into a dark and yawning hall, was the unmistakeable tree-stylised rune for Ferdibrands own secret order of nature mages, the Iuithiolvar. The hall, indeed the entire temple was barren and empty, with naught but a few straggly weeds living in the dust strewn corners, and overhead, the single ancient tree.
Reaching out the tendrils of his Will Ferdibrand sensed something wonderful, and sad. The tree was one of his brethren, perhaps the most ancient one of the Iuithiolvar still alive. But, his Elder, it seemed, had succumbed to the greatest peril of their kind. To allow his mind and soul to pass into the ether of the plants and trees.
Remarkably, however, as opposed to collapsing, and perishing of thirst and hunger, the Elders' body had transformed into a tree. Ferdibrand felt humbled beyond belief by the height of this achievement. Not the fraidy humility of the bustling streets and noise of the city; not the keen humility of standing before the face of a mountain innumerable times huger and older than ones' self. A quiet glowing humility such as a plant, or one of the Iuithiolvar could ever know.
He had reached out but to touch one of the trailing roots, and perceived the undeniable calling to climb, which of course he did, earning himself numerous scratches, and fluking a dozen near-misses before he reached the comparative safety of the Iuithiolvar-trees broad branches. From there he turned south, and saw the forest.
Having travelled much of the world already, and shared the dark secrets at the heart of the Misty Forest; the rainforest far to the north; Ferdibrand did not believe he could know a sense of wonder such as that forest inspired in him.
It was awake. And then, then Ferdibrand understood why the ancient temple stood barren and empty, and one of the Elders had remained, for all time, to point towards the only true home of the Iuithiolvar.
The Inkeeper, who had taken rather a shining to his halfling guest was crushed to hear that Ferdibrand was leaving sooner than he had planned. For no sooner than he had seen the woods, than Ferdibrand longed to go to them. But, never one to refuse a thing given in a kind spirit, Ferdibrand stayed for the late-afternoon meal; and related quietly all that he had seen and felt to the Innkeeper. "I almost felt as if my heart got too big to fit inside me when I saw that there wood!" Ferdibrand shook his head, and sipped, not without a small sadness that it was to be his last ale for a time.
The Innkeeper sat back and shook his head slowly. "You're a wonder, and no mistake Mister Dibs." he said. "I can only imagine what manner of wonders, or treasure might be in that wood! he exclaimed, a little too loudly for Ferdibrands' comfort, in the dimly lit, and busy commonroom. "Isn't it a funny thing, though, Mister Dibs; I've lived here all my life, and never noticed that wood yonder, as if it appeared from nowhere..."
Ferdibrand slurped the last draught of his ale, wincing as it ached its' way down his throat. "Well, Master Inn. Thanks very kindly for your hospitality..." Ferdibrand tried as much as he was able to escape the Innkeeper, and his unchecked tongue. Perhaps it was only his nerves, but Ferdibrand felt sure that more than a few ears had caught the rumour of treasure, and cocked in their direction. So he all but fled, doubling through the lanes a few times, and trekking for a time through one of the shallow canals running out of the city to try and conceal their path from any who might be inclined to follow them.
Thusly, as much as he was uncomfortable walking along the featureless plain toward the south, feeling certain that he had Erling must stick out something terrible; neither -to Ferdibrands' releif- could he discern anyone trailing them.
Taiaka - February 8, 2008 11:13 PM (GMT)
For the last week, Taiaka had been going by the name of Sooty and was assumed to be one of the family cat’s brood of wily offspring. He was scabby and sallow, and the children were warned away from touching him; “That one must be diseased, a cat shouldn’t look like that,” the mother’s would cluck. Still, the innkeepers set out tins of milk and pork fat every other morning and there was plenty of offal from the butcher if he could fend off the dogs. No one paid him any attention and he could sleep in the sun, mind like a blank slate, and drift into a comfortable malaise.
The inn held the best gossip and when Sooty appeared on the back porch one morning with a meaty rat in his mouth, he was given the job of mouser. They let him in the basement when the wenches screamed of mice, and Taiaka curled up on the sacks of barley after a hardy meal and a borrowed bottle of wine. One of the girl’s actually whispered something about the cat drinking wine…”I found the empty bottle on the floor! Cork looked like it was chewed off…” It wasn’t though. Taiaka wouldn’t waste a bottle of wine licking himself as a dreary feline.
In the mornings, someone would shoo him away with a broom and he would lope off with his tail in the air, his temples throbbing from a fuzzy hangover. Taiaka treasured the lethargic and complimentary lifestyle; it was so far away than what he was accustomed and allowed in his clan. He understood that it was ultimately a trust issue: No one wants to know that the cat has been watching them bathe, listening to the confidential fragments that make up their psyche. Living cagily cautious had never been his forte though, and his lessons had been fire branded. But he had to give something to his experiences for keeping him alive as long as they had, he just didn’t care about motive anymore.
On the heels of some cloaked pilgrim, Sooty hitched a ride on a cascade of shadows, and slunk into the common room. He became nothing more than a length of blackness along the floorboards, which wasn’t difficult, and was finally able to put faces to the voices that drifted into the basement. Keeping a particularly keen eye on a wench’s round bottom as she served plates of steaming supper, the cat listened to the cacophony of chatter and became certain and still. Someone was talking about what kind of ink goes best with which parchment, and there were two voices silently speaking about the logistics of eloping without anyone knowing.
"… my heart got too big to fit inside me when I saw that there wood!... Mister Dibs, I can only imagine what manner of wonders, or treasure might be in that wood! …..My life,…never noticed…from nowhere...Untold wealth…set for life…"
Taiaka stopped listening after the word ‘treasure’ he would admit if he had to be honest, and begrudgingly tore his eyes from the woman’s rump. Greed was no motivation, he would hate to drown in his own possessions, but there was still something exciting and enticing about the promise of wonderment and riches.
The boy who had spoke, no, the man who had spoke, was one of those small men that Taiaka remembered trading salt with in Anfauglir. His father told him not to stare and knuckled him on the top of the head so he wouldn’t forget. But they were a rare occurrence in the caravans, so Taiaka never received the opportunity to actually speak to one. This was a shame he was suddenly given the choice to amend.
Without warning, the hobbit bolted from the inn as if chased and before Taiaka had a chance to sneak himself away, hooves throbbed outside. The wenches squeaked when the cat poured out of the dim and began scratching at the door; they hiked up their skirts and let him out without a thought, cursing for the trouble all the while. Indolent golden light told that cotton-bellied clouds would soon coddle the setting sun and cast down layers of smothering shadows. For the careless eye that watched, Sooty the cat decided on a whim to leap from the stoop of the inn, aim himself at the cluster of pigeons that mulled just outside the chicken coup, and flee into the long grass without a quarry.
But the birds cooed and scattered into the sky, and Taiaka was amongst them. He was clumsy at flying, but no more so than your average pigeon; he flapped, tacked, and wobbled dangerously just above the rooftops before finding a gentle push of wind that guided him upwards. From the sky, his vantage changed somewhat for the better, but he became exposed for all to see. Secure that a pigeon is just a pigeon and that he would be regarded as such (even to the hawks), he climbed higher; just high enough to watch the hobbit and his horse make mad loops backtracking in a hurried rush. Taiaka managed to keep his fidgety body steady enough to press the chase until the horse and rider turned a beeline south and trotted onwards through the rough prairie grass.
It was more of a controlled fall than a landing, but Taiaka tumbled only once before coming to a complete stop in a tangled thicket. There he lay for a moment, limbs akimbo, waiting for his vision to clear.
A bird flew in, but a cat walked out. Beneath the arching meadow weeds that bow like mourners in the hobbit’s wake, Sooty the chalky black cat followed the gently ploughed trail, his tail straight up in the air.
Ferdibrand - February 11, 2008 01:37 AM (GMT)
With the darkening horizon at his right shoulder Ferdibrands' stiff trek eased into a comfortable walk, and at length, something of an amble as the outlying trees seemed to wrap protective arms of shade around them. In the deep grasses, easily up to the halflings' chest and shoulders, the early crickets had begun to sound, while in the trees the late cicadas and the gossiping birds were falling quiet. In the distance an owl sounded. Afterwards the loudest sound was the quiet plod of Erlings dinner-plate sized hoofs, his fragrant breath -from nimbly grazing on sage-leaves- sounding from his soft muzzle, and the little noises of Ferdibrands cooking set within the saddle-bags. The hobbit walked brimming with wonder, the hair on the back of his neck tingling as if someone was softly blowing warm breath. "Ah me! Can you feel that Mr Erling? I feel as if I can almost hear the trees! Whispering on the winds!" Ferdibrand looked up at the vast pale silhouette of the war-horse, whose only reply was an irritated flicker of ears. Ferdibrand mock-scowled at him. "You know Mr Erling, I've never insisted you come along where ever I've gone; you'd do well to remember that a'time." He reached up and patted the busily chewing muzzle, and, certain that no one could see, gave the horse a peck of a kiss an a rough hug. "Even still, temper or no temper, I'm glad you're with me Mr Erling. I don't suppose the day will be all too far away when you'll choose a new companion, and follow me no more, and I'll miss you then." He patted Erlings muzzle again.
At every turn the grasslands offered up wild sorrel; purple-stemmed chard; at the edge of a bramble, the tell-tale leaves of wild yams, whose grub-shaped tubers tore out of the loose soil in every shade of mild pink through burnt copper. The halfling chortled at length and heartily at this, seemingly as pleased as could be, until, at the instantly elected site of their camp, he stumbled across a low bank within earshot of a noisy brook, where, in the lee of the dripping and moss-clothed bank a fallen tree positively bristled with every description of mushroom.
Hobbits, of course, have a passion for mushrooms surpassing even the wildest adoration of the Big Folk. And if Ferdibrand did not already have cause to feel more than somewhat at peace and pleased with things, as far as his day was going, he now was tipped into the realm of dreams-coming-true.
With a small trowel Ferdibrand carefully cut a wide turve from the grass, gently putting this to one side, digging a little fire-pit within which he rapidly had a few twigs and branches crackling contentedly.
In the meantime Ferdibrand lifted away the field-mushrooms, setting them in a wide skillet at the edge of the firepit to gently sizzle with their delicate frills face-up, a few sprigs of thyme each, and a nob of his precious supply of butter. Painstakingly gathering the ladys'hair mushrooms, each as long as his finger, thin as a needle, and a brilliant hue of pale gold, he braised the sorrel, and tossed the ladys'hair through once he had taken the little sauce-pan off the heat. The button mushrooms, both brown and white, he stewed with the colourful yams, and a few dried bay leaves.
All the while he muttered and hummed to himself, allowing his imagination to feed directly through to his hands; allowing his Will to roam and meander amongst the ethereal thoughts of the trees. I wonder at what that Innkeeper said, Ferdibrand mused, nibbling the the lemony-sorrel ad ladys'hair salad. How can a forest just up and appear out of nowhere? Or is that just the way of the city, to swallow you up, as if there is no real world outside of its' own jungle? He pondered, and mused, letting the thought-branches of the wood carry his mind farther into the wood itself. Remarkably, as seemingly ancient as the trees appeared, they did not give him the impression of old trees. Their sap was still quick and green, their Voices merry, gentle as a summer shower, and polite; They're properly awake and thinking for themselves these trees! Ferdibrand marvelled; and wondered, indeed, what explanation there might be.
Even then, as Ferdibrand recalled his Will he blinked, looking -seated as he was with his great woolly feet out in front of him- nearly eye to eye with the scrawniest cat he'd ever seen. "Hullo Bingo." he said said with more than a little surprise in his voice. "I don't suppose you've followed me all the way from the city have you, Mr Danderfluff?"
Taiaka - February 14, 2008 08:41 PM (GMT)
Taiaka had the pleasure of experiencing dusk through a mosaic of red-berried brambles that buried themselves happily beneath the umbra of pine trees. The last of the sunlight felt warm on his dark fur and he rippled through the ivy and curled fiddleheads like a graceful trout. The crickets, which had just begun to sing their songs, fell silent through where he walked, but the unpredictable flash of the lightning bugs said they didn’t seem to mind. Before the collapse of night, dragonflies swarmed above the spade shaped puddles like jeweled hairpins and took advantage of the lazy mosquitoes which were too hungry to put of much of a fight.
Bright green burs tugged at the scruff of Taiaka’s neck and carelessly decorated the cat’s chest and sides with the prickly seed pods, but he did not stop to chew them out of his fur. The forest smelled of water and musk and all the wonderful nuances of deer trails and badger dens. It smelled alive and untouched by the acrid smoke from the blacksmith’s forge or the rotting awful from soldier barracks; but the scent of the woods was just as pungent and poignant as the scent of the city. Taiaka was notorious for having disrespect for the woodland, not so much that he desecrated or fouled their majestic terrain, but more that he did not think the danger was comparable to that found within the walls of man. Animals have their way, their instincts and seasons, and Taiaka was quite sympathetic to their constant life. Man wanted for different things and thought different thoughts.
A wolf can understand why a man will sit at his desk and scratch markings into a piece of colored paper no more than a man can understand why a wolf leaves his markings with a squirt of piss along all the pylons of the cabin. This was Taiaka’s bridge of thought to cross for neither man, nor wolf, seemed to be willing or able, to do it. He did not blame the wolf, more than once he found the cruel traps of steel teeth set by man, sometimes with his own paw. It had torn away muscle and skin, broken the bones in his leg, but he had the hands that could pry the trap open and lock it back into place. He could set his leg and bandage his wounds, a wolf cannot.
Still, it was the way of things and Taiaka did not lament for consideration of privilege; the natural way was the way of the stars and the shape shifter was no one’s keeper. The benefit of carelessness sometimes outweighs the dire and varied consequences though; one cannot live a life worthy of repute without taking risks and Taiaka never pitied himself or wished for direction and reasons. He went where the wind blew, and the wind blew the whispered word ‘treasure’ into his cat’s ears that went up into his man mind and triggered a curious response.
A wolf did not know about treasure, neither did a cat as far as anyone knew. A treasure to a cat was a prized ball of pollen-yellow twine or a lame squirrel that hid itself under the porch leaves to die. But to a man, thinking the way they think, a treasure can be anything from a young woman with a pale face like the moon or a brawny trunk filled with leather-bound tomes. Gold, even Taiaka understood the value; jewels, dressers made of shiny cedar wood, and silvery mirrors, no doubt even a simple trader could glean their lucrative worth. But a book?...A woman? Taiaka wondered if perhaps his thoughts on such possessions were either much more primitive or simply more refined.
He wasted time with his worries and by the time he realized the stars had bloomed blurry in the humid night, the hobbit and his horse had already made camp. After a few laps at the brook, the cat laid down upon a squat round stone covered on one side with frilly white moss. He watched the one called Mister Dibs create fire and smelled the queer smells that wafted from his cook pots. Sage and bay, these were the only ones that Taiaka could put a name to, but he swore he could taste the savory of butter and braised sweetmeats on his tongue. He wasn’t hungry; he had pinned a field mouse in the tall grass earlier in the afternoon. It was barely a mouthful but his belly was still full from scraps of hardy pork fat and clean, cool, water.
Throughout, the cat crept closer to the hobbit’s camp. He did not try to hide himself and did what most cats do: paw around looking for a comfortable place to rest his bones. Taiaka keep his wide blue eyes on Mister Dibs, ears anxious and alert, forepaws stretching out in front of him.
So it did not surprise the cat when he was addressed familiarly and he was quick to respond with a flick of his tail and a tilt of his head.
“Yes,” Taiaka said, his feline voice as smooth as a purr, “I’ve come to help you find your treasure, Mister Dibs.”
Taking his eyes from the hobbit, he drew them to the fire just in time to watch a plump white moth fitfully tumble and turn to ash above its flames. The cat smiled without showing any teeth but tiny points of white at the corners of his mouth.
“And while other names may fit, I am called Taiaka. If you like, I can turn into something else for you?”
Ferdibrand - February 20, 2008 02:15 AM (GMT)
The leather-armour clad hobbit breathed a content sigh, digging a hand beneath his helm, which gleamed warmly in the firelight, scratching happily at the back of his neck, with a stifled burp and a sigh. Ferdibrand smiled, the freely given smile of any decent Hobbit when faced by a pet or a child; his woolly feet framing the skinny black cat, seen as a glimmer of dark fur, and certainly of almond shaped eyes peering at him intelligently through the gloom.
The hobbitry of Aginwood, being Ferdibrands' kith and country, were not quite like outside (by which those of Aginwood meant other) Kindreds of Hobbits. For a start their orderly country, Aginwood was the narrow waist of land between the very northern edge of the Misty Woods and barely a four day journey to the north, desert of Anfauglir whence the miserable, if no less perilous descendants of Angband remained. The freedom and good Hobbit sense of Aginwood, beset from above and below, was hard-won and fiercely defended.
The Aginwood Hobbitry were active allies of the Dwarves, in their marvellous mountain city to the west of Aginwood, an alliance that went back to the Dark Old Days, presumably when Angband was still at large, and the troubles of the moon were amplified a thousand-fold on the home planet of Ea. Ferdibrand, like all sturdy Aginwood lads had seen the great city under the mountain, and trained amongst the ranks of the dwarves. At his hips were his dwarven-forged axes, namely Biff and Buster, whose honest pattern-welded steel scintillated with a notable gold, as if the sunshine and good hobbit-sense of Aginwood had been blended into the iron. Of course such gifts from the Dwarves were in fact no less than a just reward for having their eastern border guarded by the tireless, and astonishingly effective vigilance of the Aginwoodlings. Biffand Buster had indeed seen no small extent of use since coming into Ferdibrands care, whose long-fingered hands belied the determined kind of strength necessary to win the respect of the doughty dwarves.
The Aginwoodlings, and Ferdibrand being a chief example, were not entirely similar to the Outside Kindreds. Not least of all because of their love of adventures. Perhaps something of the dwarves had rubbed off on them. They were altogether more battle-ready, and less inclined to slip away quietly if faced with trouble. Perhaps even more able to face such peril.
The Hobbitry of Aginwood fostered a completely arcane craft of astonishingly powerful elemental wizardry. Whether such latent Mastery had been infused in them from their long relationship with the Dwarves, or whether in the quiet hearts of all Hobbits such powers lay in wait, the Aginwoodlings -if in absolute secret- were not a force -in spite of their diminutive appearance- to be overlooked.
Thusly, although he appeared entirely at ease -and indeed he had not been presented a situation in which he would be inclined to get upset quite yet- Ferdibrand was nonetheless looking in to the matter with more senses than merely his eyes.
Ferdibrand Rumble was one of very few in the Steadily Aging World (as the Aginwoodlings put it) to have mastered the primordial Lore of the Iuithiolvar. It was understood that near enough to the beginning, when the mighty forests that covered the world lived a breathed in the fearless dark when only the stars lit the sky, the God of Nature had seen that although the Animals and other Free Beings of nature, the Kelvar, could defend themselves; the plants and growing things, the Olvar were unable. Even as he deemed this, the Will of Curin passed into Nature, awakening the Ents, and Quickening in such Free Beings as had the inclination, the power of the Iuithiolvar, The Weilders' of Plants, who in their need, or that of the growing things, could quicken the oldest of oaks from the deep-rooted slumber of their kind, to speak, even move.
Ferdibrand had not yet detected any reason why he should feel alarmed, and so his smile remained for the time being. He peered over at the remarkable appearance of a cat that could speak, and granted the occurance the nod of approval it warranted.
"Yes" the cat purr-answered,"I’ve come to help you find your treasure, Mister Dibs." the little cat seemed to attempt a feline smile of sorts."And while other names may fit, I am called Taiaka. If you like, I can turn into something else for you?"
"Tickler is it? Well, I guess your whiskers look long enough to have warranted that name honestly enough." said Ferdibrand, engaging in the Age Old Rite of exchanging pleasantries in as close a form to riddles as possible (this is a particularly good idea when treating with Dragons, whose wicked hearts delight in riddles of all sorts). Ferdibrand had not perceived anything out rightly evil about his unexpected guest, but then, he mused warily there are many things far older, crueller, and more perilous than the Evil-Beings of the Dark Old Days.
"You'll pardon me if it doesn't sound neighbourly, there's no call to go changing into anything, but please feel free to have a share of the light and warmth of the fire if it pleases you" Ferdibrand went on to say,"But if you're a Skin-Changer, if I take your meaning rightly, I'm as happy with this shape as any." he said. Indeed Ferdibrand Rumble had contended with a dragon before, and had no mind to do so again- if this cat-shape was but a ruse of an enchanted predator with a mind to turn Ferdibrand into a meal.
"But Mister Dibs, say you? I can't say as I recall our first meeting Master Tickler, nor when I might have told it to you." Ferdibrand pointedly avoided the mention of treasure and smiled at his companion.
Taiaka - February 21, 2008 05:41 PM (GMT)
Taiaka held himself perfectly still and let the golden firelight fill his blue eyes with smoky reflections.
“Maybe one of the stars told me your name, Mister Dibs. Perhaps it descended on a thin silvery cord of moonlight and whispered it into my ear. Then, like Cousin Spider, it crawled back into its web of sky.” He spoke gently and methodically as if musing aloud, but his gaze, as shiny and distant as it seemed, remained tethered to the hobbit’s face.
“Or,” the cat blinked slowly, “Perhaps I overheard it in a crowded taproom. But one cannot be sure, Mister Dibs. One has a terrible memory.”
Of course, this was not true.
“Many years ago, the people built a small shrine to one of their many-man-gods. They built it near my home, so near I could smell the sandalwood incense they burned and the thick ink they used to write their prayers. To this day I do not know what was being honored at this shrine. Maybe a tree or a rock, maybe the plot of land itself, one never knows when it comes to man.
“It was nothing more than two pillars of aging cedar and a roof of thatched Koba vines. Strung between the pillars was a thin braid of indigo and sky blue thread. The people would tie their prayers to this; the little folded pieces of colored paper as delicate as the hopes they carried. Sometimes, they would leave little clay jars of sour wine or bowls of cooked oats. And once, a particularly honored guest left a small copper birdcage that contained a colorful finch.
“I was tempted to leave my home, to be honest, what with all the visitors. But I remained, generally undisturbed. I was living as a wolf at that time. A small wolf, more like a fox really….Perhaps a coyote, one cannot remember with absolute clarity and one does have a tendency to unintentionally mix guises together into unnatural, analogous, shapes.”
The cat paused and thoughtfully touched his chin with a curled paw, “Soon, the people stopped visiting the shrine. Perhaps it was because winter had choked the life out of the woods; the sweet streams were caulked in ice and the trees became demons’ fingers. Or maybe it was not the season to pray to whatever they prayed to at the shrine. One doesn’t know. I just know that they never came back.
“So I decided to visit the shrine myself, Mister Dibs. I carefully untied all of their prayers and read them one by one. Most were cryptic things, riddles and uncertainties, poems, pictures and the choruses to long dead bard songs. I tasted the paper, tasted the ink, and tasted the people that left their secrets tied to a cord of thread. I ate the oats they left, and the finch, and drank the sour wine until my head felt hot and heavy and I lay on the ground panting.
“It was then I had a dream, and as a Skin-Changer, as you put it, I place much influence in dreams. This dream was different though, it was unlike any I have had before. A man with the body of a snake slithered down from the constellations and for a moment I was blinded by the starlight he seemed to emit. He spoke my name and then scolded me for being so careless with the prayers of man. I bowed my head apologetically, but the snake-man said that my curiosity was inevitable an honest. He said that a watcher can only watch, but that I had stopped watching, therefore breaking the rules.
“At his point in the dream I became frightened and I hid my eyes from the snake-man and his halo of starlight. ‘Candlelight to cats’ eyes and you shine,’ he said, ‘where lives the wood without a path, you and nature there doth bind. Where once bare plain and sunlight be, now there treasure shall beckon thee’.
The dream faded then and I ran home as fast as my paws could take me, never to think on the snake-man or the words he spoke again.”
Taiaka, the cat, licked his lips and gave somewhat of a convincing shrug to the hobbit. The crickets had stopped chirping, he just realized, and thought for a moment that they had just become too involved in his tale to remember their song. He let his gaze sweep across the fire to the shadowy tree line, feeling suddenly vulnerable and at a loss for words. Luckily, none of this could show on the furred face of a feline.
“I apologize, Mr. Dibs, one knows they must sound crazed, but one has waited a long time to speak those words.”
Ferdibrand - March 4, 2008 01:44 AM (GMT)
Something of the feeling of a dream went with the skin-changer, as its strange mind was borne upon its breath to Ferdibrands primordial and surprisingly powerful senses. He peered curiously at it, much of his earlier wariness and alarm washing away from him as he perceived much of his unexpected guests character and motivations. The Breath-sense is a funny thing, and no mistake Ferdibrand would put it, if ever asked by one of his peers to explain his phenomenal ability, Well, it certainly isn't a kind of mind-sharing. It's somehow older, and yet more alive than that. For example, can Mind-sharing let you in on the deep dark thoughts of shrub and tree? Well, for most, those without the Iuithiolvar gift, even the Breath-sense won't reach that far. But it's as if, on the breath, I can sense, sort of feel a things heart. I feel pictures, kind of like feeling the shape of a thing with your hands, but with your soul. I guess, it's like touching on anothers' soul with your own.
Thusly Ferdibrand simply allowed his guest to speak.
In the mean time, at the edge of sight, Ferdibrand saw a shadowy shape flitter. Which hopped into the light of the little fire. A thrush -or throstle as they were still known in Ferdibrands homeland. It's dark little eyes, like polished beads of obsidian, winked and tilted, looking at Ferdibrand with that remarkable mix of intelligence, and yet utter innocence.
Remarkably, having held out his hand to the little thing, Ferdibrand experienced the remarkable occurance of having the precious thing hop, seemingly quite tame, to his hand. He smiled at it, nodding that it was safe to hop onto his hand, which it did, at which point it vanished.
Now that is strange Ferdibrand blinked, and pushed out the extent of his Iuithiolvar time-warping capability.
Time, such as it usually appeared to pass, came to almost a complete stop.
Ferdibrand got up and paced a small circle, his chin grasped with a slightly shaky hand. Now, now Dibs he schooled himself, there ain't no call to go getting all flustered. You've got all the time in the world, so think. He looked about himself, at the breathless woods, seemingly caught in the stretching instant, time having ground to the slow pace of a glacier. Well, make no mistake, you knew these woods here weren't you're garden variety... he chuckled nervously at his own joke but this is all happening a little too fast. He looked hard at his hand, into which the Throstle had mysteriously been absorbed. Ferdibrand endeavoured to look at himself with his own powers. What he saw surprised even himself. His life force had taken on a life of its' own. That was the only way he could describe it. His very soul seemed to have outgrown the mere confines of his body. Well now, hmm now... Ferdibrand felt his Ferdibrandishness receeding into a proper sense of Dibsish unease. Well, I guess all this stretching a hobbits' mind here and there, and listening in on the dreams of trees, and what have you, has had a stronger effect than you'd banked on Master Rumble. He murmured. Well, there's nothing for it, we'll just have to see, won't we?
A strange, and particularly having come from outside thought sprang into Ferdibrands' mind, and time slipped from his grasp...
"where lives the wood without a path, you and nature there doth bind. Where once bare plain and sunlight be, now there treasure shall beckon thee" said the Skin-changer.
"Sorry what?" Ferdibrand shook his head gently, as if trying to shake the grasp of the dream from his mind. "Now there you go again with this talk of treasure, Mister Tickler, sir." Ferdibrand held up his hands, waving them helplessly in the air between them. "No treasure here, I'm certain!" He said, but even he wasn't so sure, now.
Taiaka - March 17, 2008 08:39 PM (GMT)
The skunk was closer than she should have been to their camp and the cat’s hackles were set on edge. She was scratching for grubs in a copse of fallen trees, finding plump one’s if Taiaka recalled correctly, but he suddenly couldn’t remember anything. His words were like fireflies in a coffin, fat and bright against the shear pitch of forest night; their hardy campfire no longer popped and hissed, coughing sullen ash that tickled the cat’s fur, but had settled into a stout and slow burn. The skunk’s rhythmic digging, pauses long enough just for a swallow, were overpowered by the rattle of his throat and the dream he spoke of so candidly, was painted swiftly and hewn with a hint of trepidation.
A cat’s palate of emotion is simple, and a man of careful consideration can hide behind a mask of fur whiskers quite easily without giving away anything in the way of expression. Perhaps at the very worst he would come off as finicky or apathetic. Fear, he knew, was the way his eyes would shine against the fire when his pupils grew fat and round. But the reason behind the fear was a faraway tumbler locked behind the dim sterility of a feline. His words had meaning, but he had stopped listening, his voice resonated outside his head and he felt as if they had jagged edges that cut his tongue from the sharpness. He saw the snake-man and the golden hue of his heavy eyes and relived the shame he felt because he drank the vinegar. Times of great joy flooded his every thought; he saw faces carved on the sides of rocks and tasted the salt that can only come from the nape of a lover’s neck. There was music and whispers and the sticky scent of oily perfume, angry stars and the lonesome cradling of enemies heads against one’s bosom.
Taiaka wanted to cry out but the words refused to stop until they were spoken. He felt like an observer, a mild feeling no doubt easily overlooked, but the cat had raw nerves for senses and the damn skunk just kept getting closer. Together, it was a hellish tourniquet, and it squelched the flow of his capacity to reason. Why did it seem that dawn was closer? Cat muscles coiled without prompting like they did when a dog was near and Taiaka couldn’t stop spikes of fur from creeping down his spine. Black tail puffed like the brush of a chimneysweep and his ears pressed back against his skull as he stared at the hobbit.
“Sorry, what?” In that moment of sheer panic and held breath, the hobbit spoke off cue, "Now there you go again with this talk of treasure, Mister Tickler, sir.” Taiaka felt the fingers in his brain recede, but the sensation was replaced with a dire disassociation, a desire to spring from his own body and abandon his soul. All he heard was the rush of his pulse when suddenly the hobbit’s thick hands sliced the air and waved forebodingly; foreign gestures and mumbled words bade the blood in the cat’s veins to scream. Adrenaline took no reaction from catalyst and it did not wait for the validation of man.
Sufficiently spooked beyond his control, Taiaka leapt from the rock so quickly the claws on his hind legs threw tuffs of moss into the dying fire. He ran faster than his eyes could see and darted beneath thorny brambles and leafy ferns. He ran beyond the dew laden mullet willows by the brook and did not get caught in the exposed tangle of walnut tree roots. His lungs burned by the time he dashed through the tall prairie grass and he startled a skunk who was digging for grubs when he saw the first whisper of smoke from the village. He streaked through the gates and weaved beneath twin pack mules before slamming into the livery’s side door. Taiaka stood stiff-legged and wiry, ears pointing in opposite directions, fur prickly and loose.
The cat did not notice the lean boy with the pitchfork mucking stables, but instead heard and disembodied voice, “Aw Sooty boy, what’s gotten into you?” The boy knelt to comfort the cat, but Taiaka’s fear was still fresh. He had been given good reasons why he should not trust man and, other than a couple of curious mistakes, had stayed true. Now, a boy with an outstretched hand caused him to become frightened once again and he bolted from the scene. The boy didn’t think twice: Cat’s will be cats. Even one’s with the soul of a man.