noise dept.
@theartofmadeline
One Nice Bug Per Day
Peter Solarz
almost home
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
dirt enthusiast
blake kathryn
đȘŒ
styofa doing anything
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă
$LAYYYTER
titsay
tumblr dot com
DEAR READER
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
KIROKAZE
AnasAbdin
we're not kids anymore.
todays bird
seen from Germany
seen from TĂŒrkiye
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Italy
seen from Denmark
seen from Bolivia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@jem-adair
It's my name day.
[ Now there was something Gabriel could relate to. He despised his name day, for reasons that were fairly clear. It would better be called the anniversary of his miseryâs creation, even if that was long and a little wordy.]
Would the reasons for your sadness be ones that I best not ask about, ranger?
No, no. I only get t'turn twenty-three once.
Oh, dearie muses.
[ Coriander can tolerate people insulting her talkativeness, but she was more than capable of intelligence, thank you very much. ]Â Speak you to your mother in such a tone? Tâis a sad day a child insults a noblewoman to her face.
[Ey does not look up, but hums dully before ey responds.] No mother t'be speakin to.Â
[Jem glances disdainfully down at the lady, rolling the potato idly in eir hand.] Died seven years back savin some young noblewoman from a fire. [And finally, to pitch in mockery of her tone:]Â
T'was a sad day. M'lady.
A man who, under my guidance, trains himself to protect the kingdom and the people in it.
[Jem's fingers twitch.]
[Mumbled.] Forget it. [Eir hands creep up to grip into the fabric of eir cowl. Quieter still, and turning away.] Just forget it.Â
It's my name day.
Ale then, [Gabriel waved over a barmaid and placed the order, an ale for him companion and nothing for himself. She gave him a curious look, nothing he wasnât used to, then hurried off.]
So, Ranger. Why so eager to get yourself drunk on your own nameday? Not that I donât agree with the choice, that is.
Why? Well I'm sad, of course.Â
It's my name day.
Well, that is as good a reason as any to buy you a drink. Come then. [Christopher gestured for Jem to follow him towards the bar.] You shall choose whatever it is your fancy to drink this day.
Huh! [Jem grins widely, and follows with no complaint. Ey leans on the bar, and cracks eir knuckles thoughtfully as ey turns a decision.]Â
Mead. No - mulled mead. Please.
Oath Chris, maybe y'not so borin as I thought.
Perseval was working on his archery. It wasnât his best skill, but it was one he loved. It reminded him of how far heâs come since joining the rangers. It had been fourteen years, but it usually didnât feel like it. He had been just a boy when he joined, and now he was almost thirty. It seemed odd to him to think about that there had been people he spoke to that couldnât remember summer or were born after the winter began. He didnât like to think about his age in regards to anything but his skills and his job; those were what really mattered to him.Â
With his bow facing the target, he knocked an arrow and pulled it back, letting his fingers grace his cheek. He was going for a bullseye, a perfect shot, and he exhaled to aid his focus. Just as he began to let the arrow fly, Jem made himself known in a rather annoying way, and it made his arm jolt, shooting the arrow high and over his target. He let out a sigh and lowered his bow, his eyes still on the target. âHello, Jem.â
The arrow soared its doomed soar just at the same time eir mood did and no, those events shared absolutely no relationship, no sir, not at all. The grin across Jem's face looked like it was fixing to tickle eir ears.
"Aw!" Jem exclaimed, drawing out eir armguard and fiddling with the straps. "You missed! Sorry, d'I scare you?" Sorry!" Ey chuckled to emself, shoving eir sleeve to eir elbow and buckling the bracer to eir forearm. Sure, armguards were more or less unnecessary these days, what with all those layers one had to wear if they wanted to keep their spit in liquid form, but ah. Jem liked them. More specifically, ey liked seeing how tight ey could get them. Ey always wondered if ey could stop the blood to eir hand.
Satisfied, ey patted the leather and covered it again, and damn near beamed out at ol' mate Percy. "And 'ow are we today?"
Because you are a ranger. A ranger is not nothing. [ And she still did not understand. ]
And what's a ranger?
It's my name day.
Well, normally people start with âhelloâ or something, but why not? [Gabrielâs pockets were by no means full of coin, but the upfront practical order from the ranger before him was something he wasnât used to a couldnât properly refuse, he assumed, without causing a fuss]Â What do you fancy?
[Jem flashed eir eyebrows, mouth quirked down. Did not expect that to work.]
Well hello, buy me a drink -- oh, you will? Great, see, we'll get along. Mead would be nice. Or ale. Whatever'll get me drunk.
It's my name day.
A happy name day to you, then. Unfortunately, Iâm afraid any barmaid would likely not serve to me, lest theyâd already had a number of drinks themself.
[Jem blinks.] That was a piss poor excuse. [Beat.] My...lady...Â
[Clears throat.] Awright. [Ey rests eir chin on eir hand and stares sullenly ahead.] Surely you can come up w'somethin bettern that, though.Â
It's my name day.
You should buy me a drink, it's polite.
Liquorlip Loaded Gun - Sticky Fingers
To say Jem had much love for the shooting range would be...a lie bigger than Ranger Dalca, to say the least. But there was something in the supple bend of the wood and the pull of the string and the thin thwack to the target that sated something hungry in em. In the quiver at eir shoulder the arrows stood to rigid attention, and bow in hand, Jem stalked right by the lone figure of one Perseval Houndstooth. Ey took the target two stops to the left of him, bit the glove off eir bow-hand before cramming it into eir pocket. Paused. Stuck a couple of fingers in eir mouth and whistled, then waved, grinning toothy like some night creature.
"Aft'noon, Houndstooth."
Devil in the Details // Cynwrig & Jem
âMyâŠâ
Eir mouth went dry, as if by the simple parting of eir lips all the warmth of life had just slipped out from eir body. Memories? Hope â it shrunk into itself, curled up growling and scared like a some creature cornered by reality. Jemâs grip on the book loosened ever so slightly, before ey clutched it yet closer. While ey could see it, while ey could touch it, it was there. Memories? LikeâŠwhat? All of them?
Suddenly ey wished that ey had taken that chair. The many snow-battling steps of the trek here had finally caught up to em in a stampede, and Jem was a pace away from being trampled. Ey shut the book slowly, moved to trap it numbly between eir rising, falling chest and crossed arms. Oh, gods. Oh gods, that wasâŠey gulped and scanned the area once more, tucking the book awkwardly under eir arm. The stool. Ey righted it, almost shakily lowered emself, then set the tome atop eir knees. Looked at it, fingertips grazing softly down the cool leather of the cover. Ey blinked a bit, face blank and shocked. Shook eir head. And then ey gave a breathless chuckle.
âIâŠoh, oath,â Jem huffed, flopping back eir hood and ruffling the hair beneath. Trailed eir hand down, felt the cloth of eir cowl between eir fingers. Like a childâs blanket, that thing made em feel safer. It wrapped eir shoulders and ears and neck up nice and warm, cast shadows over eir eyes when it was up and, most importantly, formed a nest where the lump in eir throat could hide. On one hand, guarding loyally against Noreâs cold could potentially become its sole function. But on the other handâŠwell. It was a modest thing, yes. Not even particularly soft; somewhat coarse. Brown. Brown: the colour of oak trees, eir fathers eyes, wooden spoons, a deerâs hide. Eir mothers stew. The crust of bread. Jem clenched eir hand into the fabric. The coarse â brown â homely fabric.
âYou have done this before,â ey said, more a call for confirmation than a statement, âand it worked.â Ey stood up, covered what distance lay between the stool and the desk in long strides, and put the book on the desk with a dull thud, eyes wide and searching and full of trepidation. Ey stuck eir palms to the wood, fingers arching like spidersâ legs. âCan you give me a guarantee,â ey said, âthat it will work?â
"I do not give guarantees," Cynwrig replied, pale eyes casting upward at Jem. "There is no life without risk. The same goes for spellcasting." And Cynwrig had learned that lesson well. He had rested on his laurels countless time when it came to crafting spells, and look at the astounding failures that had resulted inâŠ
Cynwrig pulled his book back towards himself, his hands resting on the cover as Jemâs had only moments ago. âBut yes, I have cast this spell before. And it has worked.â He did not feel the need to divulge that he was the person whoâd been the recipient of it.
"You need not make a decision today," Cynwrig said finally. "It is a decision that one should not enter into lightly. If there is hesitance in your desires, then I can assure you the spell will falter. But if you are true in your claims, then it is far more likely to work.
"You will lose no intelligence that you may have had prior. That much you will retain. The spell will not cost you your mind, but it will take all that you knew prior and cause you to forget it. Your friends, your familyâŠyou will not know them as you do now.
"It is an opportunity, Jem, to begin again, as you were meant to be. You need only accept my offer of assistance."
Jem's temper spiked at the witch's answer, but prickled reluctantly down as he went on. Eir hand was curled and hardened to a fist on the table-top, before ey brought it up to press at eir mouth. With slow, plodding steps, ey paced a wide arc, every so often raking at eir scalp, tugging eir cowl, licking eir lips, running eir hands down eir face. Memories. Shit. Memories. Now, it wasn't like Jem had a great many good ones. A lot of bad ones. Some ey'd be happily be rid of, some that were less than cheerful but had shaped em all the same. A jumble of fondly recalled snippets from eir childhood; glimpses of the summer sun and eir mother and eir father and peeling the film off a sunburnt shoulder...but gods. Oh, good gods, the witch was bloody right; this was not at all a decision to be entered into 'lightly'. Suddenly, with another brush of the fabric puddling around eir shoulders, ey remembered: brown, the colour of mud. Slippery and sloppy and packed up into a little pile, served to one of the other children as a pie by the riverbank.
The Ranger paused. No friends. No family. No knowledge -- how far? "Will I speak?" Jem asked, bringing eir hands away as ey spoke. "Will I know how to read, will I...know my name?" Jem took a few steps to return to the desk, and then a few more still. "My job," ey said, "recipes I could recite in my sleep. Anything?" Eir hands were trembling stiffly by eir sides, and only stopped when ey clenched them so hard it was though ey meant to choke the air. "Or things my hands know, like...flint n'steel, tying laces, nocking an arrow..." Ey shifted. Â Would the new Jem know which stall sold the best pies? Or how to get to that bathhouse -- the rickety one, half down and wheezing with steam and woodsmoke, but worth the peril for the cheap private room for people like em? Would the new Jem know where to prod Houndstooth, how to irk Foreman, to stay away from Sutton...would the new Jem remember the keen sting of a pink shoulder, or the other kids' faces when ey showed them how the skin came off in sheets?
No. No, ey didn't think the new Jem would.
But like the nights after new moon, light was peeking out in a slim silver crescent from the dark, and from now it would only ripen to full. Hope had shown its face, and for the force of desire, love at first sight apparently existed. Jem was coming to realise that ey must have them wed, lest ey endure desire's heartache for the rest of eir life...a life that, if ey squinted, looked an awful lot like it was empty. (If ey squinted, only if ey really squinted.)
A new start, Jem thought. As I was meant to be...
Memory, though. Could ey go without that? Its touch was warm, the world was cold.
[ On instinct, Lavinia recoiled, her knife already half-drawn. He was angry, and, logically, she knew he meant no harm. But it did not change her reaction to an outburst, whether she liked it or not. It still took a moment for her to recover and relax once more. ]
Youâre not a boy And youâre not a girl. I understand that. But what does that make you? Speak plain, Jem. I am not known as a scholar.
[Ey was silent a moment. Took a step back, gulped. Tim was finding the spoon in the pot extremely engaging. Jem's fingers curled gingerly at eir sides. Ey hadn't expected understanding. And it was one of those things that looked tiny as but a speck on the horizon, but as it moved closer it grew more and more frightening.]
I don't see why I have t'be anything.
Oh, dearie muses.
I find me to be more logical when voicing my thoughts to myself. None else need pay attention to them.
...Logical.Â
[Under breath] Well there y'bloody go.Â
[Jem strides forward and plucks up a potato, tosses it up and catches, turns it in eir hand -- no longer interested in the chirpings of some lady.]
Oh, dearie muses.
M-maâmarvelling? [ Corianderâs face turns a bright red. ]
That's right. Y'just tawlking n'tawlking n'tawlkin'.Â
