|
|
Post by Sinold Bragasson on Oct 27, 2009 20:11:49 GMT -5
Fjor guided him through the rain, like any old companion would. Fjor’s steps were steady, and quite slow. Knowing of his master’s tiredness paired with a willingness to stay onto Fjor’s back, this darn stubbornnes of this Twolegg! … one fast or unsure step would let his master fall off his back. So Fjor moved on, one careful step, and then one more …step after step. - His Master had been away from his old home a long time now… Fjor knew as much from hearing his master talk of home, the old times, the good times he so abruptly had abandoned … How his master missed his beloved! – Horses were no dumb creatures, you know, and his Master knew and let Fjor know so daily by talking to him.. How his master missed his old home … how he miss that castle! Why these Twoleggs so loved to live enclosed behind wall … Fjor would never understand! But, he understood this much, that Twoleggs needed to live amongst their kinds … And their mate, which this one seemed to have abandoned! Why the Twolegg had deserted his mate for … what? Fjor would never understand. – So Fjor trotted along, to the south-west (horses know!), carefully. By now the rain had started to pour, cold hard drops soaking them both… but Fjor wouldn’t stop until he had brought his Master home to that stony enclosure called Windstorm!
|
|
|
|
Post by Sinold Bragasson on Oct 28, 2009 13:40:22 GMT -5
You stupid Twolegg! Come, come up! – Fjor nudged the face of his master … it tasted … salty, like sweat. Yet this Twolegg was hot, all over. Fjor nudged the curled body on the ground of the cave, which was only covered by a thin something.. If only his master had used his riding blanket to cover himself!
If he dies, I die, Fjor thought, once more nudging his master’s face. The man groaned, clearly in pain now.
Not good, not good, not good, nonono!
The icy rain had turned to the flakes of ice and white death by now …. Skelpjars, like Fjor was one, could outlast almost any icy time! But this Twolegg?
With a last look at the by now shivering Twolegg, Fjor stepped outside the cave. The snow now almost blinded his vision, but in the south-west (where his master had said his stony enclosure was), there was some light.
His steps on the slick, icening ground were sure, and soon his trott became a run, to find someone he could lead to his ill master!
|
|
|
|
Post by Sinold Bragasson on Oct 28, 2009 13:42:38 GMT -5
(Anyone is welcome to bring Sinold home! Please, participate!)  |
|
|
|
Post by Dream Loxley on Oct 29, 2009 5:32:53 GMT -5
((  Super to see you again....sorry, r/t far too busy to play or write at the moment but I sincerely hope you find the time to return......I hope to soon. xx)) |
|
|
|
Post by sofia on Oct 29, 2009 9:48:49 GMT -5
(I did this in room earlier but had to leave due to a r/t emergency.....The clever beastie happened on an old farmer and led him back to the feverish man, who then took man and beast back to his little peasant farm, a small but very tidy establishment. At last glimpse, sinold was being hauled into the farmer's thatched little house by his massive 6 foot tall son Billy, and the old farmer was leading the horse into a tiny earth-walled neatly thatched shelter to get fed and dried and whatnot)
|
|
|
|
Post by sofia on Oct 29, 2009 9:50:35 GMT -5
(17:15:01)
Sofia bint Nasrullah
Windstorm, CS
: ~It was a grizzled farmer who first heard the horse's pounding hooves and waited, looking curiously as the animal lumbered into sight. Oddly enough he pulls up short of the farmer eyeing the peasant man with an oddly keen intelligence. The farmer begins to speak in low and soothing tones, taking step by slow step toward the panting horse. **Eeeeaassy now lad there's nowt t 'urt ye 'ere.....come on now...that's a good fellow** The old man speaks soft and soothingly, but eh horse always dances back just out of reach, slowly leading the farmer back along the road toward his injured master~
(17:20:04)
Sofia bint Nasrullah
Windstorm, CS
: ~In the wind and rain the kindly old farmer isn't about to let a loose steed stay out to suffer, and his old voice patiently coaxes the retreating Fjor time and again, following at a gentle distance. But the farmer hasn't lived all hs years without learnign a thing or three about animals, and it soon occurs to him that rather than following a stray beastie, he's rather the one being led. His footsteps pause and greyed head under leather cap and hood tilts a bit **Come lad, where ye be leadin' me mmm? Is yer Master 'urt?** Maybe it was a lucky guess, maybe it was instinct, maybe it was part of the old man's gift with animals, but the horse suddenly snickered and snorted, turnign to trot a stort way down the trail...turnign to look at the old man as if waiting....advancing again when the farmer stepped forward. **Aw'right lad awright I'll follow ye**
(17:26:41)
Sofia bint Nasrullah
Windstorm, CS
: ~Ther were tales of such things happening before, devoted animals making effort to save a beloved owner's life, and the old peasant man had seen enough in his long years to respect animal intelligence when it showed up. Moving a bit slowly, still he follows the horse along the trail, coming at last to the little cave, and the man inside. **'Ello lad.....wot's wrong wiv' ye, mmm...**The old man takes one look att he stranger's flushed face, his glazed eyes....gasps and crosses himself, then coaxes the horse forward again...**come on, I need ya to 'elp carry 'im, I'm not so young as I used ter be
(17:32:50)
Sofia bint Nasrullah
Windstorm, CS
: **It takes a few fits and false starts but at last the ill man is draped over his horse's saddle. Now the old farmer takes the horse blanket, and drapes it over man and beast. Still strong despite his years, he takes the stranger's few posessions in hand, then proceeds to lead the loaded horse back along the trail, talking softly all the while...**No worries lad we'll get ye home an' fixed up right 's rain...me wife's no 'ealer but we've got a good 'un up in th' castle...Moorish she be from wot I 'ears, got some funny ways..but no deny'n th' lass's skills, nowt one 'as died since she been 'ere...** He doesn't really expect the feverish man to hear or understand, he's mostly just talking to let him know he's not alone**
(17:39:29)
Sofia bint Nasrullah
Windstorm, CS
: ~Wasting no time, the old farmer leads the laden horse back along the trails and the road, making for his own little farm. Soon it comes into view...old and small, by no means wealthy, yet everything is tidy and well-tended. He can't help but beam with a little honest pride at his own tidy home....peasant he might be, but his home was clean and tight and the thatch on his roof kept the rain out. Off to one side a very small round mud-brick building serves for a stable, neatly made and thatched well. A layer of thick clean straw graces the bottom, and a simple door can be sealed against the weather, making a warm place for his few animals. **'BILLY ME LAD!!! GET THEE OUT 'ERE!!!!** Calling out to his eldest son. "Lad" was a bit of a misnomer, Billy being a solid 6 feet tall and built like a brick wall. Billy takes a look and hollers back asking DO YER NEED TH' UNDERTAKER, DA?. Shaking his head the old farmer replies that the man is burnign with fever, take him in and lay him by the fire. Billy nods and easily gathers the man up, carring him inside as per his father's directions**
|
|
|
|
Post by Sinold Bragasson on Oct 29, 2009 10:25:01 GMT -5
(I did this in room earlier but had to leave due to a r/t emergency.....The clever beastie happened on an old farmer and led him back to the feverish man, who then took man and beast back to his little peasant farm, a small but very tidy establishment. At last glimpse, sinold was being hauled into the farmer's thatched little house by his massive 6 foot tall son Billy, and the old farmer was leading the horse into a tiny earth-walled neatly thatched shelter to get fed and dried and whatnot) Thank you! I will continue then. And maybe I should have called that horsey Lassie! Or Flipper ;D |
|
|
|
Post by Fjor on Oct 30, 2009 4:03:08 GMT -5
“Stupid Twolegg! He hasn’t say Hi to me once since we arrived … Pah, likely he’s blaming me. Of course … stupid Twolegg, never have I seen a clumsier one!”
Fjor was a bit unhappy with the current situation. Granted, the Twoleggs who now feed him and had given him a good brush were adequate. But why had his master not come see him?
“I bet he’s clumsy enough to die, and I did my best ….they will blame me. GRRRRR….”
Angrily, Fjor chewed on a bushel of hay and wondered if all Masters were like that!
|
|
|
|
Post by Sinold Bragasson on Oct 30, 2009 4:04:35 GMT -5
„Where am I?”
Sinold’s voice was weak, his left arm burning … vaguely he remembered. A thunderstorm, Fjor had lost his footing on a sloping mountainside and thrown Sinold off. The bone of his lower left arm was broken, a nasty deep gash producing a lot of blood. The wound had become infected …
“Fjor, you … stupid horse. Where … have you taken….me? This is not …. The …. Castle…”
Again Sinold slipped into his feverish uneasy sleep, welcoming the blankness enfolding him.
|
|
|
|
Post by sofia on Oct 30, 2009 13:25:02 GMT -5
IN THE INTERIM, the old farmer's wife knows the man is beyond her simple cares, and in the morning sends her husband and son to take the man and his horse to the castle. Some hours later, we find....
(13:03:23)
Sofia bint Nasrullah
Windstorm, CS
: Meanwhile.........
Far off down the road an odd littel group is advancing. The two peasant men, old and young, are common enough. It's the tall blond man with the broken arm draped unconscious across his horse's saddle that's unusual. They can't hurry much, yet they waste no time either. One of the villagers, seeing something is wrong, quickly gathers a few of his friends and they hurry down the road to meet the odd grouping~~
(13:07:51)
Sofia bint Nasrullah
Windstorm, CS
is in the Great Hall, and say to Emissary of West Frankia: At your unasked grip of her hand dark eyes flash dangerously and she tugs her li' paw back just as quickly as you are finished. Her voice has a wry quirk of humor** I shall hope so, though I am capable of attending such simple thing, and a good deal worse *Slim palms press together, a graceful salaam offered** I am Sofia bint Nasrullah, healing woman in residence
(13:13:46)
Sofia bint Nasrullah
Windstorm, CS
: MEANWHILE, down in the village...
~The old peasant farmer and his son are met by the group of villagers....'ere now Ian, wot yer got...ay! That's Sinold's 'orse, he's a right clever one, an' oh dear god that's Sinold...oh dear we best get 'im to th' castle......and so they gather up the injured man between them, and start hustling along the road and up toward the castle**
|
|
|
|
Post by sofia on Oct 30, 2009 13:52:11 GMT -5
(short story shorter, he's finally now made it to the castle and been taken to the infirmary. He will wake to find his wounds bandaged and his horse in the stables. Sofia is treating his fever with strong willowbark and feverfew, the bone is set and splinted, the flesh washed with lavendar water and the wound has been packed with lavendar and plantain beaten in honey, a vry potent healing and disinfectant poultice)
|
|
|
|
Post by Lady Edfeil on Oct 31, 2009 21:20:17 GMT -5
((great to see you again, Sinny. I am still battling jet lag from the trip to Belgium, but it's really great to see you here again. BTW, still working on your christmas present!))
|
|
|
|
Post by Ghost of a Guest on Nov 3, 2009 16:38:50 GMT -5
Leather tough spidery clawed feet clamped tightly around the rain-wetted branches that tossed in the heights of the blustery trees. The hooded old glinting obsidian eyes barely visible through narrowed slits missed little of the goings-on in the woods he though of as His, yet very nearly overlooking the small movements below. A virile gust prodded the begrudged flutter of wings to balance the old bird steady, his eyes searching to fix again on the weakened man and horse-beast.
There. Growing darker as the rain morphed into a wet sleet, the tattered bit of cloth torn from the hem of the man's travel-weary clothes had lain across the barren twigged underbrush, tempting the wizened scavenger, small threads fluttering like tiny whiskers.
One quick glance after the departing duo, the shadow-black silence deftly retrieved His prize with a lightning skill. Sparing beats carried him through the waving branches without mishap until he broke free of the increasingly leafless woods towards a small cottage near the sea.
She'd left him morsels, he was certain, of a purpose. He'd meant to thank her. Shaking the cold and white from his raven-black wings, he rapped slightly at the imperfect glass.
|
|
