Migraine
timekeeperlindar:
Gavin, a lone survivor after the flood that had swept through, was sitting in the trampled grass, twirling his moustache and overall looking like he was trying his best not to burst out into hysterical laughter. But then Argus opened the window, looking like a frazzled pufferfish, and well- that was the last straw for what little restraint Gavin had left. He cackled, falling back in the grass and rolling around, clutching his stomach. Even then, he managed some form of explanation between gasps for air: “Lindar- Ba-Ba'ah- HAHAHAHAHA!- Lindar’s in some deep sheep sh-” **** It seemed the little shepard had already made quite a reputation for himself, and became somewhat of an upstart: he already had a place (though only pro tem, and perhaps tyrannically claimed) amongst the Artisan leaders’ council. He was seated with the rest of them, in a circle of chairs amongst a tide of wool. With the natural adaptability that came only to the the best leaders, the adults had made themselves accustomed to the sheep all around, as if the meeting room had always looked this way. Nestor resumed his position at the head, his legs crossed and his talons folded neatly over his knee. “So, we are led to believe that the reason for this…invasion,” here, Nestor clandestinely rubbed his bruised snout, “is that Ba'ah had concerns over your well-being.” This was directed to Lindar, who sat in his own chair in the center of the circle as if on trial. He felt his temples throbbing even worse than before. His wings drooped at his back, his shoulders hunched, causing his head to bow, and the cold glass of water he had been provided did nothing to cool his flushing scales. Overall, he gave the impression of a scolded child. Still, he managed to answer, though due to the coil of nausea that began to twist his stomach it came out as more of a mumble.
“…Yeeeah…But I’m fine-” he had to swallow hard to fight against the sensation of his lunch trying to come back up his throat, but he swallowed it back. He rubbed his throbbing temple. Everyone in the room gave him a doubtful look. Nestor raised his brows at the clocksmith and turned towards their scribe. “Alban, if you will help us continue where we left off.” Alban tried to wrest a piece of parchment from a sheep that seemed to have mistook it for a snack. With a few tugs he succeeded. He shot the sheep a sour look before adjusting his monocle and reading off his notes: “There was a new amendment proposed to our policy regarding the import of Hot Rod Red pigment from the deserts of the Peacekeeper’s realms: that a 0.4% sales tax should be levied on all imports, to fund better packaging for said jars of pigment so they never again arrive cracked.” Lindar almost spit out his water. “That was it?! That was the ‘oh so urgent’ cause to be brought up today?! The whole reason I showed up instead of suffering alone at home?” “Well,” Alban supplied, “As Gildas is a resident of Stone Hill, and a painter who uses the pigment, he would surely want his leader to represent him on such matters.” “Everyone in favor?” Nestor asked. “Aye,” was the unanimous response. Lindar grit his teeth- and then refrained, when it made his temples flare with new starbursts of pain. One of the sheep started using the corner of his chair to scratch itself. “And while we’re at it,” Nestor said, “how about another vote: all in favor of our resident clocksmith being temporarily suspended from all further duties and confined to bedrest and asprin until his health is restored?” “Aye,” was again, the unanimous response- this time met with a few snickers. Lindar’s eyes widened- but that let in more light, stinging his eyes and making his head hurt even worse. He swallowed back more nausea. “But…I still have-” “Duties that can best be attended to later, when your head isn’t pounding as if I hit it with one of my hammers,” Nestor said. Lindar pouted. “…But, what about-” “Not until you’re better,” Nestor asserted again. He turned to Ba'ah and handed the meeting gavel to the hatchling. He turned to the rest of the leaders, smiling. “Gentlemen, any more pressing business?” “None,” was the response. Nestor nodded. “Meeting adjourned.” He gestured to their newest council member to end their meeting, and thus granted him power also to pronounce sentence on Lindar.
He really hoped the hatchlings didn’t hear that last word.
“Yes, I can see that!”, Argus yelled, nowhere as amused as Gavin. “And you thought the most reasonable course of action was to just stand there and allow an infant to herd hundreds of sheep through the castle during a summit instead of intercepting Lindar yourself?”
But while his fears would thankfully not come to pass, as he would realise in the near future, it didn’t change the fact that Argus needed to give the hysterical dragon below a wake up call.
“Damage to the interiors be damned, do you have any idea how easily Ba’ah could be trampled by that stampede if he falls?! I don’t care how well an affinity he-”
A loud bang from behind made him flinch and put an end to his tirade. Swinging around, a wide-eyed Argus discovered that Yin and Yang thought it would be hilarious to startle him by deliberately popping one of the balloons they were using for paper mache - and clearly it was; his reaction got all eight of the tots laughing.
Better that than frightening them with his screams, he thought.
Rolling his eyes and scoffing “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two...”, Argus shut the window and opted to redirect his paternal instincts towards keeping the kids safe from the sheep onslaught (and choking hazards).
Over in the conference room/petting zoo, Ba’ah had been gracious enough to settle down as soon as the other Artisan leaders gave in to his demands without a fight, unlike someone. Even though a handful of the sheep hadn’t - some more than others - he managed to behave himself for the rest of the meeting.
Hell, maybe they weren’t just playing along to humour the little one - or antagonise Lindar - and actually had some level of respect for his authority over their livestock.
The gavel now in his claws, Ba’ah took a moment to inspect the tiny, strangely-shaped wooden hammer he’d been handed. An intrusive thought tempted him to throw it at the horologist’s head, though he thankfully decided to emulate Nestor’s actions rather than his metaphors and tapped it against the chair, formally bringing his “first” leaders’ meeting to an end before pointing at Lindar and declaring “It’s night-night time.”
Nothing to do now but carry out the sentencing. Ba’ah unceremoniously dropped the gavel onto the floor, stretched his legs, carefully reached out from his perch to retrieve his staff and prepared to drag his captive through the obstacle course he created.
...oh, right.
They were stuck in a room literally filled to the brim with sheep, connected to a hall jammed with sheep by a doorway wedged wide open because of - you guessed it, more sheep.
Ba’ah froze once the obvious finally occurred to him. “How do we get out?” He cycled between looking around and peering out into the hall, some manner of calculation going on in that tiny noggin, eventually coming to another halt and calling out “Hamster?”
A head belonging to the gruffest ram in all of Stone Hill rose in response. The baby dragon scanned the room again, locating his charge off to the side, then used his brethren as stepping stones to wander over and ask “Can you watch Lindar until the others go home?”
Lindar and Gavin had only gotten a glimpse with the stunt he pulled earlier.
Now, all of the Artisan leaders would bear witness to the true extent of Ba’ah’s talents.
