thinking intently about creature caretaker who was experimented on, just like whumpee, and ends up being the one to save them. For caretaker’s part, if they were ever human, they certainly aren’t anymore, so it makes things a little difficult. They don’t have the vocal chords to form words, their claws make writing arduous and clumsy. It doesn’t change their determination to help, of course, but… Between their offputting appearance and animalistic instincts, nobody seems to think they’re anything more than a beast at first glance. Whumpee doesn’t know they were rescued in a carefully planned heist, not snatched by a vicious monster that wants to eat them.
Nora lay on her side, trying not to breathe too deeply, and wished she could relight the fire without risking her stomach turning inside out again. The elves had made such a fuss last night about needing light for the humans and the halfling, but then when they’d all left her here this morning, they hadn’t bothered to do anything to keep the light going, not even as the human lit himself a torch for traveling with.
She clenched her fist, her short nails digging into her palms. That was the last time she went adventuring with a bunch of assholes from a tavern, no matter how much the contract on the notice board was for.
Even being still and angry was apparently too much for her stomach, and she felt another retch coming in time to pull herself up onto her hands and knees, again, and crawl over to the puddle of vomit on the other side of the tunnel, again, and when all that came up was bile, burning her throat and making her eyes water, she tried to convince herself that at least she got to lie back down pretty quickly between pukes now. Lying down was good. Lying down kept the world from spinning so much.
Her face was flushed and hot and felt almost like it was swelling, but as she laid back down against the back wall, she found herself shivering. Fuck.
Everything hurt, and the only thing dragging her mind from her aching, wrenching stomach did for her was make her notice how sore she was everywhere else, her skin feeling too tight over her shoulders and back and everything, everywhere aching.
She heard a noise just down the tunnel, close enough that she should have been able to hear whoever it was coming before now, if they weren’t trying to be sneaky. Reaching her bow and quiver and managing the whole thing was too much, but as she reached, too fast, for her dagger, she found herself retching again, her stomach jostled and frightened and turning itself inside out.
This time she didn’t crawl, pulling herself up just far enough to breathe through the retching. She focused on her breathing, focused, focused, focused, fought through the dizziness, and threw up nothing.
By the time she’d gotten control of the gagging, there was a figure looming in the tunnel a few feet away, tall and muscular and covered in hair. “Sorry,” it said in a deep voice, “The noise was so I wouldn’t scare you.”
She knew, vaguely, that she ought to go for her dagger again, but the bugbear was at least twice her size, and he hadn’t gone straight for an attack, and she let herself collapse back down onto the floor instead, where things spun a little bit less.
He came closer, his hands held placatingly in front of him. “What’s, uh - How did you get here?”
She looked up at him, tired to her bones, and every lie she’d ever thought up abandoned her at once. “We were looking for a staff,” she admitted, “It’s magic or something. I dunno. The pay was good.”
For a moment, he looked angry, but there was nothing to be done about it. Then his face softened again. “Alright. And how’d you end up here?” he asked, glancing sideways at the puddle of vomit in the corner.
“Food poisoning,” she said, “That idiot bard.”
“Hm. And your group just left you here?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed, kneeling down in front of her. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, the pain in her throat keeping it from sounding as cutting as she’d meant it.
“No, I mean your eyes are glassy.” He reached a hand out toward her and she held stock still, but then he just laid his palm on her forehead and held it there a moment. “I don’t know a lot of halflings, but that feels too warm.”
“Yeah,” she croaked, “I’m sick.”
The bugbear sighed. “Yeah, alright. I probably ought to be finding your friends, but-”
She snorted, but then it made her gag and she had to struggle back up onto her hands and knees before she puked on herself.
Just like she had for the last hour, she threw up nothing but bile, burning and acidic, but this time a large, gentle hand rubbed her back, between her shoulderblades until she stopped coughing, and she didn’t want to admit to herself how much it helped.
“Yeah, alright,” he said softly, “Not friends. Either way, I’d better get you looked at before I go after them.”
She grunted. Those assholes could die down here, for all she cared. Maybe.
She’d never quite forgotten that she was meant to be afraid of bugbears. She’d heard plenty about how dangerous they were when she was a child hanging around her grandmother’s burrow. But she’d heard lots of things among her grandmother’s friends that her parents had said they shouldn’t say, and she’d never much thought about bugbears one way or another.
As the bugbear lifted her easily and casually up into his arms in one smooth motion, she was suddenly intensely aware of his strength. She couldn’t have escaped those arms even at her full strength, but even as the thought scared her, she found herself instinctively sinking into his fur, which was softer than she’d have expected if you’d asked her.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice rumbling through her as she leaned against his chest.
“I think so.”
“Good. Didn’t wanna jostle you too much.”
He started walking down the tunnel the way he’d come, moving smoothly and silently in the dark.
“Am I a prisoner?” she asked, the thought occurring to her as vaguely absurd, cradled carefully against him like this.
Through the fur, she’d never have known he was blushing if she weren’t this close to his face. “I, uh - I actually don’t know? I don’t really do prisoners. I’m technically, uh -” he paused, “I’m an assassin.”
She breathed carefully, fighting back the impulse to retch again.
“But not for you!” he added quickly. “I’m not uh - look, we really only care about protecting our warren! It’s all good and well for me and all, but it doesn’t take much to put the goblins in danger, and it’s their home too! I’m just - you know, not in the business of killing sick people who haven’t killed any of us first.”
He paused again. “You haven’t murdered anybody down here, have you?”
“I’m not even sure I knew there were people down here?”
“Yeah, see, you’re fine. And I’m fine. We’re fine.”
He didn’t sound certain, but his grip was still gentle and she was so tired, and his chest was warm against her cheek. She made a soft noise of agreement, leaning into him and letting her exhaustion take her away.
The last thing she heard before she fell asleep was, “Yeah. We’re alright.”
Drawings-a-Day June/July 2017
Since I updated my iPhone I can draw doodles in the text app when I go to bed and realize I forgot to draw during the day: previous drawing-a-day post
Batman (and company) - iPhone text doodle
Creature Caretaker - Procreate *
Scratch Paper Sunday Bear - Scratch Paper
Scratch Paper Mongi House Bear - Scratch Paper
Commander Shepard riding a thresher maw - marker, pen
Ship flags - text doodle
It’s safe to say that my life has changed drastically in the last year. I’ve been finding myself doing things I could never imagine, even on the funkiest of substances.
For example, the other night in the kitchen, I found myself practicing a “dance routine” with a high-heeled 9-year-old girl , or as you may know her, Creature 2.
Creature 2 was pretending to be on a fictitious show “Dancing with Tom.” Now you have to understand, anyone who knows me knows two things: 1. I HATE to dance. As in, I have to have double digit numbers of drinks to even dance at a wedding. And 2. I might be the worst dancer ever. I couldn’t find a beat if it were snow in Alaska. It’s that bad.
Creature 2 is my girlfriend’s beautiful daughter (for whom I become an authority figure without an accurate or original title, until I created the term Creature Caretaker.) She is what you might say a bit, um, dramatic. She likes to perform – paint, dance, act, even hula hoop for an audience. If you don’t look busy, she will entertain you.
So she decided she would be the “star” of “Dancing With Tom” (I failed to convince her that I was, indeed, the star of the show that included MY name). She created, and continually added to, a brief dance routine that we practiced one hundred times, give or take. We were to perform about a half hour after dinner.
Her mother made dinner, we practiced. Then she added a whole “intro” to the dance that, not shockingly, starred her and contained no role for me other than standing by. (The routine included a robe, a sexy look, and the flipping off of bunny slippers in favor of sparkly high heels. I told you I couldn’t make this up.)
So we get the routine down. I, of course, suck at it, but I follow her lead (EVERYONE will be looking at her, of course) and it was fun. And it was about 45 seconds, so I could give her that. Finally after we practice and nail it, I thought I could rest.
But no. She insisted on practicing our after party. Not another dance, or even entering the room. But practicing our banter.
I’ll say that again. We had to practice our AFTER PARTY conversations. She acted like quite the diva, being dismissive of others, calling for her “limo dog” and insisting I talk a little (but not too much) so that she didn’t “hog the conversation.” But, she added “Don’t make me look bad, Tom. You can really mess this up for me.”
So we performed, both on the kitchen dance floor, and afterwards with our admirers (that would be her mother) at the after party.
After it was all done, I thought about it for a while. My prevailing thought?
“She’s NINE!!! And knows sexy poses. And has a ‘limo dog.’ Her mother and I are fucked. Royally.”
But then I also thought about where I was a year ago. Alone in my one bedroom condo about 1,200 miles away from this kitchen dance floor. And the dancing practice and the show and the after party – all of it made me smile for about two hours. For those 120 minutes, there was literally nothing else in my word. I could get used to that.
I mean, I don’t want to dance every night. And I sure don’t want Creature 2’s mother taping any of that for my family and friends out East.
But knowing that I could make a beautiful awesome 9-year-old girl’s night just by dancing in the kitchen with her for a while – that was pretty awesome feeling for a non-parent thrust into this strange role. I knew I was in the exact right kitchen and that I was now, and I’m supposed to be a Creature Caretaker.
