Turn 17, Multitudinous Failures of WordsJim, in accordance with Madame Tavell's wishes, takes a look around while his hostess brings over a bowl to wash himself with. A mostly unremarkable, if well-kept interior, indicative of reasonable wealth and not much more.
Mostly. Apart from that, there's also pictures of people. Strange-looking people that Jim can't quite place, but that look familiar nevertheless. The pictures of the entrance hall all seem to be painted in such a way that the person depicted in them is looking at the entrance, which makes Jim feel a little bit unwelcome. But that's probably only natural.
"Right, here's your bowl - wash up now, and call me when you're done, alright?" Madame Tavell says, appearing from nowhere and passing Jim a bowl, then walking off once more. Jim, though leery of the pictures, does not let it deter him, and sets the bowl down on a nearby table and proceeds to wash himself, making sure not to bare himself too much in case somebody's watching. It takes him a bit to get all the problem areas to a state of presentability while keeping up the modesty, but it's probably well worth the effort. After all, who knows what circles these portraits may trade hushed whispers in.
... why did that thought occur to Jim?
Soon he calls out for the widow, and she comes without delay.
"Got a room ready for you - it is nothing grand, of course," she laughs,
"but certainly better than outside, no?"Led over to a chamber not very far from the kitchen, where a straw mattress can be found. Oddly, the chamber itself has a rather large door for its size, complete with a fairly sturdy lock.
"I hope you do not mind, but I will need to lock you in for the night - it is not that I don't trust your good intentions, sir, but I have been known to be a poor judge of character at times," Madame Tavell informs her guest, looking mildly apologetic, presumably expecting some form of protest at this.
* * * * *
Bidding her new dead acquaintance Grew a friendly farewell,
Emilia leaves the hole and climbs on out, finding her way back to Reen and the gang, who are all idling irritably on the dirt streets of Yungor.
"You find something in there?" Reen asks as soon as Emilia's foot is out the doorway. Emilia, ever the quick thinker, replies without even thinking.
"No, nothing at all interesting down there that I may or may not have found. Not even dust," she says, shrugging three times and no more.
"Not even dust?" Erta wonders aloud, raising an eyebrow at Emilia.
"Not even dust!" Birto exclaims with incredulity.
"That means someone's been there! Recently, too!" Reen says, smelling blood and treasure in her future very vividly.
"I must investigate. Birto, to me!" she says, leaping off the cart to the ground deftly, then heading off past Emilia. Birto, for his part, follows without a word, though he seems excited to be a part of an adventure.
* * * * *
Pilner, not about to give up on the first person he happened to meet along his way as a source of information, commences communication at a higher specificity and intensity, asking this woman to establish the what and the where rather than simply the how and the why. He gestures squarishly to promote a keeping within the normative bounds of location, but the woman doesn't seem to quite get that, continuing on with her tales of a mountain adventure beyond Pilner's wildest imaginings. Right now she's telling him all about this town where they serve boiled goat, can he believe it? Boiled goat! She doesn't specify what for and on what occasion, but Pilner has his suspicions regardless. He also suspects he's not getting anywhere.
He attempts to speak more persuasively and forcefully hint at needing a name or two, but the concept doesn't seem to be reaching her very well, and she goes on about goats a good while before he manages to steer her back on track, and at last get two words out.
Those words are Berrkeen Figgnirs, which he assumes to mean the Broken Fingers, which he suspected to be his immediate destination anyway. He sighs, and the woman hugs him again, talking reassuringly, slurring her southern dialect rather indecipherably.
* * * * *
Derek approaches the bosswoman with his entourage, feeling that a local leader of any sort, even if that of a set of clown women, may be worth speaking to if he is to assemble a flock of nudists worth reckoning with.
"Old woman! What troupe is this, that you lead?" he asks with authority.
The woman looks at him, tipping her hat backward a little.
"Old? Have you no manners, you bastardly lout? Why, I'd never!" she says, turning away scandalized. Sweetie laughs to herself, putting her index finger to her mouth.
"Yeah, that's no way to be talking to an entertaining type of person, ya bastardly lout!" Ehran says, then turns to her.
"You! Showperson! Be giving us the time of day, or we won't be giving you our money, see?" "Oh, be off already, you vile wastes of air! There's art happening here! Delicate process, not one arsebrains like you should be privy to by any means. So git!" she says, shaking her fist at both Derek and Ehran.
"Please, let us not fight when there are matters of-""I said git, arsebrain!" the woman repeats, retrieving a club from within a fold of her dress and hefting it up in the air menacingly.
"Maybe we are to be making with the gitting," Ehran says, looking a tad unnerved at the sight of an armed theatre person about to bash him over his naked flesh.
* * * * *
Edwin, faced with what sounds like doubt, tries his best to be reassuring.
"Only if He deems it necessary or right. As I've said, the great and merciful Orange Pekoe is both wise and peace loving. The only reason He would impart the knowledge of your god to anyone else is if He knows that your God could benefit from it. As he did with me.""Hm," the man he's speaking to wonders.
"But he is a god, yes?"Edwin's not sure what to reply to that, so he nods.
"That is the problem," the man points at Edwin, smiling.
"Can't trust gods. Wise gods most of all. Wise gods are tricky. Gnome god is a simple god. Wants care, wants warmth, wants companions. It is good to us because we are good to it."A pause. Edwin starts to say something, but the man continues.
"You must leave. Leave and say nothing, not to people, not to Orange Pekoe. Especially not to the path. Balance must be kept, and never must things mix, else things will go out of their places in a bad way."There's a slightly fearful look in his eye, and the old man can tell that things have obviously clicked in the least desirable of ways somewhere deep inside his mind.
Well, finally sat down and wrote that. It's less than I would have wanted, but the routine has to resume somehow.
Remember - non-actioned dialogue is forbidden!
Derek: 5 MP
Emilia: 4 MP
Edwin: 2 MP
Pilner: 5 MP
Jim: 5 MP
Author
Topic: Birth of a Deity: Turn 17, Multitudinous Failures of Words (Read 25954 times)