No title available
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
tannertan36
trying on a metaphor
roma★
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Today's Document
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
if i look back, i am lost
★
todays bird
Jules of Nature
⁂
ellievsbear
Sade Olutola
izzy's playlists!
wallacepolsom
Cosimo Galluzzi
we're not kids anymore.
cherry valley forever
seen from Germany
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seen from Türkiye
seen from Spain
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@xansmenagerie
Hi! This is the writing archive for Xan's Menagerie - if you want to interact with me in non-writing ways, skip over to my reblogs blog.
I'm always happy to take writing prompts; I tend more to urban and low fantasy, but goodness knows what'll happen with the right impetus...
WIP info under the cut.
"Fear not, fair maiden! I have come to- oh."
The prince, most of the way through hauling himself over the balcony, gazed in some peturbation at the grizzled man clearly just waking up from a nap in a comfy armchair placed just so to catch the afternoon sun. As his eye scanned the room he took in the battered suit of armour juryrigged onto a dressmaker's dummy in one corner, the extremely large sword propped up in another; they finally came to halt on the man again who, having apparently moved with cat-like stealth that someone his size should not have, was now in front of him and offering him a hand.
"When will I ever use this outside of school? I'm not going to be that kind of scientist!"
Turns out that being exceptional at using a squeezy-bulb pipette is a really useful trait when you have that many houseplants and the fertiliser is 5ml per litre dilution.
It's hard to find inspiration when constantly working from home.
No chance encounters. No overheard conversations. No oddities in a window.
Just the same humdrum over and over again.
It's the little things that count.
Today the optician complimented me on my eye care. No amoeba are eating my eyeballs.
Yesterday, a blackbird stood on the veranda roof and watched me fearlessly through the window while I typed. Not my melanistic one, although he still visits (the inside of his mouth is shockingly orange), one of the handful of males staking a claim on the bounties of my garden.
Tomorrow? The rubber tree is responding to the changing light and might unsheath a leaf; I may finish the main part of the crochet I'm working on; my partner may surprise me with a terrible pun and all the glee in the world.
And if I'm very lucky, it might be something enough to spark an idea - but if not, I can always plant another acorn.
It's not my city any more, although it's the closest to one I have. I no longer walk its streets every weekday, hunting down lunch and doing chores in the gaps I can scrape together around work; my office is now a few metres from my bed, my lunchtimes reduced to a single bakery and occasionally a dash around the supermarket.
And yet.
There's a rhythm to walking through it that hasn't left me. The shortcuts, the crowds, the places to avoid at all costs; it's not a predator stalking through the jungle so much as some small rodent scurrying through the undergrowth but the shape is the same.
And I miss it, in an odd way. I don't like the crowds, but I like the way they amplify the feeling of belonging in their very lack of it. I like being able to get a samosa chaat or a pot of noodles or anything other than a pasty or chips when I need something more solid for lunch. I like the odd little parks and green spaces, and saying hello to the two enormous London planes that pin two of the squares down.
But I like my current job, and having a house and garden big enough for me and my partner to stretch out in. I like not commuting (the city at rush hour is a deeply unfriendly beast). I like being able to step out of my back door and almost immediately be in farm land.
So I will take these stolen moments, and I will embrace them as wholeheartedly as I can in the time I have.
(And if I can swing it, I'll go and say hello to my trees on the way through.)
Is that
"Is that...? Is that...?"
It's the bane of my life; rather than failing to recognise anyone, I recognise everyone as Someone I Know. Sometimes it's funny, sometimes I make a new friend, sometimes it's excruciating.
"Is that...?"
So it makes the times when the over-enthusiastic parts of my brain that pattern-match to Friend get it right extremely worth it for the chance meetings that otherwise would not have happened.
"Is that...?"
There are times and places when the chances are higher, of course. Particular fairs and markets that cater to specific crowds in the right part of the country; we'd already clocked a number of people we knew well, and sidled past a couple we were glad not to know anymore.
"Is that...?"
"Yes, it is!"
For a catch-up with people we've not seen in over a decade, it's brief; the time between swiftly outlined, extremely loose plans made for the future, a hug long-missed.
And then we go our separate ways.
The connection remains.
SYJKR Chapter 5
Darcy wasn’t exactly dozing - she was too keyed up for that - but it had already been a long day, and since the jerk and judder of the school’s carriages splitting off from the rest of the train the ride had been curiously smooth and her seat-mates reasonable company. She could see that Eloise was practically vibrating with the urge to ask her questions - not that the excitement about her being ‘new blood’ wasn’t weird enough - but it looked like Rakesh was stopping her from getting carried away. At some point she was going to have to nose back and find out how those two knew each other, but for now Darcy was just going to count her blessings and accept the gift of peace.
“-true that the weres can get out at night?” Darcy’s mind caught up partway through Eloise’s question; she couldn’t hold back a frown when Mattie replied with no apparent irony, “Yes, but only if they’re safe to be around other people - it’d be cruel otherwise, wouldn’t it? And they have to have proof of a minimum level of control before they can come to the school.”
Rakesh spotted Darcy’s expression and drawled, “The school really didn’t tell you much about what to expect, did they?”
Darcy scowled at the tone, but grudgingly shook her head anyway. “Lots about uniforms and travelling dates, nothing about…‘weres’?” Sceptically, certain that the trio must be trying to haze her, she added, “That’s werewolves, right?”
“Oh, not so much werewolves, there’s not too many of those in Britain these days just because of there aren’t any wolves here and the ones that are from curses tend to be home schooled,” Eloise replied breezily, “But werefoxes, werebadgers, swan maidens, selkies, you do get all sorts around.”
“There was a werebear a few years ago,” Mattie piped up, “Although he was an international student from Spain. Mum said he was a good student but she had to keep an eye on him in autumn as otherwise he’d try to raid the fridges to get ready for hibernation.”
“Riiiiight…” If this was a hazing, it was starting to sound really well planned. Darcy couldn’t help prodding at it like a loose tooth though. “Next you’re going to tell me there’s vampires as well.”
Mattie looked confused. “No, they have their own school - it’s the whole nighttime thing, you see? I mean, some of them can work around that, but it’s easier for most of them to be nocturnal.”
Darcy glanced at Rakesh and saw his eyes sparkling with held-in laughter. She gave him her best “okay, spill it” look in return; he grinned.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?” he asked, which was not what Darcy was expecting in the slightest. “Eloise, I take it back - I think we do need to give Darcy here a hand, after all. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he continued as Darcy bristled, “it will be better for everyone if you at least know enough not to be offensive.”
“Raki…” Eloise said pointedly, “Be nice.”
“I am being nice,” he replied loftily, “You know that.”
“Be nicer.” Eloise pointedly turned to Darcy; Mattie was busy shrinking into his seat, clearly embarrassed by the while affair.
“Even if Rakesh is being a pain, he does have a bit of a point.” Eloise sounded unexpectedly sympathetic; that, more than anything, convinced Darcy that perhaps this wasn’t all a big practical joke after all. “If Deighbigh’s didn’t tell you anything, it’s up to us to at least get you started - so, let’s start with the Folk and see where we get to.”
---
Darcy was bored. Bored, bored, bored. It filled his immediate world like a grey, tasteless candyfloss of bleakness. He wasn’t entirely sure how much longer there was on the train at this point; from his mothers’ stories the usual sign of almost-thereness was the clunk and bump of the school’s two carriages disengaging from the mundane train, but this train was mundane all the way along so who knew?
In theory he should have been anxious about the strangeness of the situation, maybe even panicky, but there was only so long he could keep emotions like those up in the face of so much tedium. Especially with nothing he could really do about them, and especially with no input from his travelling companion.
Mr Blomgren was tapping his mechanical pencil again. The sudoku book had been swapped for one of cryptic crosswords; Darcy had to admit it, he was impressed at how fast the man seemed able to unravel the clues. He realised he was staring half a breath too late; Mr Blomgren’s eyes met his, more silver than steel, then the man sighed and closed his book with a snap.
“May I assist you with something?” Mr Blomgren’s eyes bored into him, clearly expecting Darcy to back down and behave. Something in the back of Darcy’s mind very gently snapped; he sat up straighter, returned the look as best as he could, and said, “Actually, yes. I was wondering if you could tell me more about the school.”
To Darcy’s surprise, Mr Blomgren nodded curtly then pulled yet another book out of his briefcase - this time a well-used but still neat notebook. He opened it, licked his fingers, and carefully turned to the first page - which was, again to Darcy’s surprise given the state of the notebook, completely blank until Mr Blomgren wrote Darcy’s name at the top.
“Of course. What would you like to know?” As he spoke, Mr Blomgren also quickly wrote something on the page - before Darcy could read it the ink disappeared, sucked down into the paper, then immediately the words appeared in the back of Darcy’s brain.
‘Remember where you are, and that anyone could be listening.’
Darcy gulped; it wasn’t an enchantment he was familiar with, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about one that was so intrusive, but he could sort of see the point of why Mr Blomgren was using it. It was certainly the sort of enchantment that if one could buy it off the market, it had to cost a pretty penny - which implied that the notebook must have been given to him by the school for situations like this as nothing about Mr Blomgren implied expert enchanter. The chain of logic, tenuous though it was, did relax Darcy a little.
“I, ah, was just wondering about the travel arrangements for today,” Darcy said lamely after slightly too long a pause; he had never been any good at cloak-and-dagger stuff, as Robin would call it in games, and trying to rephrase “what in Taliesin’s name is going on” into something innocuous was already making his head hurt.
“I see,” replied Mr Blomgren reflectively, already starting to write. “Assuming there are no delays, we should reach our stop by around four o’clock - I would be more precise but despite the precision of the timetable that’s almost certainly the best they will do - at which point we will be met by one of the school’s private vehicles to complete the journey.”
With a flourish the pen stopped; Darcy watched the ink sink.
‘We are aware that there are irregularities in what has occurred, and be assured that a full investigation is being carried out to determine the nature and extent of those irregularities. You are under my guardianship until we reach the school.’
Darcy processed this, Mr Blomgren watching him with lips pursed, and managed, “That…sounds good. Are you expecting any delays?”
Mr Blomgren raised both pen and an eyebrow. “This is the UK rail network, quite frankly I would more surprised if there weren’t any delays. But these things happen, and I will let the driver waiting for us know when we’re close.”
‘If there are any untoward sorts of delays, I am authorised to deal with them as I see fit and quite prepared to do so. All that I ask is that you do your best to remain intact and out of my way should it happen.’
Darcy gulped, and did his best to mask his reaction with a cough just in case anyone really was watching. “Okay, cool. Yeah. Um…”
“Rest assured, young man,” Mr Blomgren said, suddenly snapping the notebook shut, “You will only be missing one day of term. Your housemistress is expecting you before dinner and will be able to answer all of your questions far more easily than I can. I suggest that you find something to occupy yourself with until we reach our stop - one of those ‘phone games’ if nothing else - or this will feel like a very long trip for both of us.”
Darcy nodded in mute acceptance, somewhat disturbed by the idea of Mr Blomgren being present as a bodyguard as much as an escort. Mr Blomgren returned to his crosswords; Darcy thumbed through his phone, glumly noting the remaining battery levels, and did his best to find a distraction.
---
Hiding in the toilet cubicle to have a panic attack wasn’t dignified, but it was the best Darcy could manage right now. Even that wasn’t exactly helping though - by now a cubicle in a train carriage full of teenagers should smell rank and have at least one broken fixture, but the worst she could say about this one was that the small, high window was stuck open. In a weird way that convinced her about magic being real than her new classmates talking about it - that and the never ending free seats in the carriage.
What the everloving fudgsicle is going on?
It had to be some sort of mistake, right? Her dad had filled out all the paperwork - she knew because she’d helped - and there hadn’t been anything about how to get along with the non-human pupils (exactly the same as the human ones) or the rules for familiars (well behaved ones only and nothing larger than a dog) or that extracurriculars included broomstick riding ‘because it was traditional’. But the acceptance letter had arrived in the post - no glitter, no scrolls, just ordinary post from an ordinary postman - and that was never how it worked in books.
Half of her wanted to find an adult and tell them she wasn’t meant to be here. The other half…the other half, under the panic, was intrigued. Darcy had never considered herself to be anything other than rooted in reality, solid and sensible out of necessity, but buried under that was a dreamer she’d forgotten about and that dreamer had just been given the opportunity of a lifetime if she could just pull it off.
There was a soft knock on the door, only just louder than the rattle of the train.
“Hey, Dar? You okay in there?” Eloise was clearly pitching her voice at just loud enough to be heard and cheerful enough not to concern anyone else, but Darcy could catch the edge of worry. “Only we’re nearly at the station, and we don’t want to leave you behind.”
Sad to say, that almost felt as much of a shock as finding out magic was real and taught to twelve year olds. Darcy had made friends at her previous schools, sure, but it had always felt like a bit of an uphill struggle - something about how Eloise and the others had been acting suggested in this case it was accepted fact. It was certainly enough of a boost to get Darcy to pull herself together, get her breathing under control and carefully open the cubicle door, mindful that Eloise might be using it to balance.
Eloise lit up like the sun - there really was no other way to describe it in Darcy’s mind - as she emerged.
“There you are,” Eloise beamed, then added more quietly, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to drop so much on you at once, Raki always gets a bit carried away when he has someone to tell things to.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Darcy waved it off in the same quiet way, “Better I know before I need it and get in trouble, y’know?”
Eloise nodded conspiratorially then continued in a more normal speaking voice, “Let’s get back to the others and help them round up their things. Raki’s terrible for leaving bags under tables and such, hopefully Mattie’s keeping him tidy but you never know, he could be as bad.”
“You and…Rakesh,” Darcy asked, not willing to use Eloise’s nickname without asking Rakesh first, “I’m guessing you’re old friends?”
“Oh goodness yes,” Eloise breezed as she lead the way down the aisle, “Nearest magical neighbours so it just made sense for our parents to introduce us when we were little and luckily we’ve always got along. But don’t worry, we’ve got room for new friends!”
Darcy could feel the train slowing as they reached the seats where Mattie and Rakesh were putting their things away in their bags. Mattie smiled shyly at Darcy while Rakesh scowled; Darcy recognised the latter as the “I possibly messed up but don’t want to admit it” expression she sometimes used herself and deliberately aimed a “no hard feelings” smile at him in response. Rakesh’s shoulders relaxed a little, and while the scowl remained it felt friendlier.
Getting off the train was the usual chaos of large numbers of teenagers funnelled through a small number of doors - even without needing to collect luggage on the way. Forcibly ejected onto the platform by the crush of people, Darcy took a moment to look back; she was weirdly unsurprised to see that despite the number of people there was still only the one carriage on the track alongside an engine that looked…homemade, as much as such a thing could. Looking around she realised that the track leading into the station also appeared to emerge from a hedge…
Mattie tapped on her arm to get her attention. “Come on, Darcy, this way. Ms Carpin is rounding up all the first years.”
Ms Carpin turned out to be the imposing woman who’d been checking students onto the train. She was a little less imposing while carolling, “First years! First years over here, please! Ah, thank you Matthew, let me see... Do we have everyone?”
Waiting patiently in a space nearby not occupied by a mass of enthusiastic first years was a group of maybe twenty students, a little older - maybe second years? They seemed cheerful enough, and their presence was soon explained by Ms Carpin.
“Right, everyone! These,” and with a sweep of her arm indicated the group, “are your ‘buddies’. Today they’ll be getting you to your rooms and settled in, but hopefully this is the beginning of a lifelong friendship.”
Darcy was gratified to see at least a couple of them roll their eyes or grin slightly sarcastically at that. The older students started calling out names and splitting up the first years into more manageable pieces than the herd; Darcy was relieved to find she’d ended up with Eloise, Mattie and Rakesh in her ten, and surprised that her new ‘buddy’ was the grey-haired girl who’d spoken to her when she first got on the train.
“Looks like that’s everyone in my group - hope you all like a walk, I don’t.” The girl smiled that big, toothy smile again. “My name’s Bronwyn, don’t call me Bron unless you like being punched. Now, let’s get you all settled in and then we’ll do the talk, right?”
Darcy’s shoulders prickled; she glanced behind her to see one of the other first years in a different group giving her the oddest of looks. She shrugged and resolutely turned away, following Bronwyn down the path away from the station.
---
The first hint that Darcy had that they were approaching their stop was Mr Blomgren suddenly snapping the book of crosswords shut in a businesslike manner. The secretary glanced across at him and said, “Make sure you have all of your belongings, it would be awkward to reclaim them later,” giving the barest nod to the phone in Darcy’s hand. Darcy couldn’t help but be a little envious at the seemingly effortless way Mr Blomgren slid out of the seat - despite his briefcase even! - while he did his best to shuffle out sideways with knees and ankles still intact.
The two of them walked to the luggage rack containing Darcy’s trunk and rucksack - Darcy swaying and shuffling, Mr Blomgren gliding - and now Darcy could feel the change in the rumble as the train approached a station, the judder as it skipped over points. Between the two of them they manhandled Darcy’s trunk down with just enough time for Darcy to pull the rucksack off the rack and swing it onto his shoulders before the train pulled up to the platform.
Mr Blomgren shooed Darcy through the door before him, evidently preferring to handle the trunk by himself rather than involve Darcy in the manoeuvre. Darcy looked around. It was a small station, quiet except for a couple of other people getting off and a solitary ticket inspector, but there was nothing about it that said ‘magical’ and everything that screamed ‘mundane’ to him. There was even one of those clear-sided bins that was all that mundane stations were apparently allowed.
“So…are we carrying these to the school?” Darcy was pretty sure his mothers had enthused about how all luggage was ‘ported straight to the students’ bedrooms and wasn’t relishing dragging the trunk any further than he absolutely had to.
One eyebrow rose elegantly; Mr Blomgren replied, “I suppose you can if you really must, but as it’s a reasonable distance away I would personally recommend using the car I arranged for us earlier.” He gestured in the direction of the exit and started to walk away, somehow making it clear purely through subtle body language that now the trunk was off the train it was once again Darcy’s problem. Darcy sighed inwardly and set to dragging.
Happily there wasn’t too much station to traverse; the ticket collector let them through with a wave, and waiting almost outside the exit was the fanciest car Darcy had seen in person in his life. Also, by some way, the newest - no one in the magical world seemed capable of buying a vehicle that hadn’t been through at least one driver (careful or not) first, while this one almost looked like it had been driven off the forecourt and directly to the station. It was black, in the way that a crow’s wing is black, unrelieved inside and out. The only colour, in fact, came from the driver, a robust young man in uniform (also black) whose startlingly ginger hair was doing its best to escape from under his cap.
“Jenkins,” Mr Blomgren said neutrally; the young man (presumably Jenkins) swiftly straightened up from where he’d been leaning up the car and promptly opened the passenger door.
“Mr Blomgren, sir - and this is our stray, yes?” The words came out in a rather strained tone of cheerful politeness, like a puppy that desperately wants to play but has been told to behave too many times already.
“Indeed.” Mr Blomgren swept past Jenkins and sat himself in the passenger seat. Jenkins surreptitiously rolled his eyes while opening the rear passenger door for Darcy; Darcy couldn’t help but smile in understanding. Darcy looked at his trunk and hesitated; Jenkins quickly swept in with a, “don’t worry sir, I’ll put that in the boot for you,” and ushered him into the car as soon as Darcy swung his rucksack off his shoulders.
The drive to the school was deeply uncomfortable; not because of the car, which was as plush inside as the outside suggested it might be, but because of the atmosphere. Jenkins tried to start up a conversation twice, once with Mr Blomgren and once with Darcy himself, and both times Mr Blomgren just…coughed. It was a small cough, a mere clearing of the throat, but it raised the hairs on the back of Darcy’s neck and clearly had a similar effect on Jenkins given the way he shut up abruptly both times. Darcy resorted to staring out the window at the leafy, bland country lanes and wondering just what he had let himself in for…
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SYJKR Chapter 4
The inside of the train carriage was pure chaos. Teenagers of all ages filled every seat, and maybe only a tenth of them were actually sitting in them as designed; although no one was rude enough to have shoes on the upholstery it looked like a good many had simply discarded their shoes to get around this. Before she could start looking for an empty spot of her own, however, Darcy was stopped short by a brick wall of a human being who nevertheless had Head Boy written all over him. Literally, once she spotted the badge.
"First year? Need a hand? I can put your bags up, no probs!" On one hand, Darcy had had poor experiences before with boys like him - blond, pale, in a position of power - and she tensed automatically. On the other, his tone was unexpectedly high-pitched and perky for someone his size; Darcy found herself irresistibly put in mind of a large, friendly, Golden Retriever that wasn't entirely sure if she wanted to play. The two warring thoughts stopped her from responding straight away.
"Trent! Give them a chance to breathe! And stop looming!" Against all ergonomic sense the new speaker was lounging belly down on the nearest seat, propped up on her elbows, feet up against the wall. Darcy received a wide and toothy grin under the darkest eyes Darcy had ever seen as Trent bashfully backed off a bit. "Don't mind him, he's got no manners but he's a big old softy really," the girl continued, not helping with Darcy's mental images. She expected Trent to kick up a fuss but he just gave her a sheepish grin and shrug that said "It's true" louder than words ever could.
Trying not to laugh, tension released, Darcy said, "Sure, I could use a hand."
Trent instantly perked up again. "Right! Anything that goes on this rack will get taken in for you at the other end, so make sure you have anything you want for the train ride on you." Given it was the first rack by the door Darcy couldn't see how Trent could think there would be room for another bag on it, never mind her duffel, but she dutifully handed it and the smaller bags attached over while working on getting out of her rucksack. Somehow he found a space to squeeze them into - and her rucksack after Darcy extracted the day sack from the top of it - although she somehow missed seeing him do it, and couldn't spot them amongst the old-fashioned wooden trunks lined up on the rack.
Darcy realised that she was taking up space in the aisle and once more started looking for an empty space, Trent already focussing on the person coming in behind her. The girl on the seat squirmed around bonelessly, rolling her eyes, until she was sitting upright. Now Darcy could see her clearly she couldn't have been much older than Darcy herself - despite hair dyed a steely grey in sharp contrast to the farmer's tan covering plump, rosy cheeks. "Nice boy, but he gets set on one task and…you know." Darcy admitted through expression alone that yes, she probably did, not wanting to get drawn into conversation. "Look," the girl continued, pointing to the connecting doors to the next carriage just behind Darcy, "don't go any further down the train that way or you'll end up in Manchester - but if you go far enough down this carriage you'll definitely find a spot."
Darcy looked down the packed carriage. "Yeah, right," she muttered under her breath - the girl must have lip read her though, as she threw another of those wide grins Darcy's way.
"Honest truth, newbie. Go on, and if you need a breather just go right to the end and ask for the Quiet Coach, alright? Now honestly, Trent!" Bronwyn's attention snapped back to Trent and the latest person being enthused at; Darcy took the opportunity to slip away, clutching her bag like a shield.
---
Something isn't right here, Darcy thought to himself, watching Mr Blomgren's reflection in the window.
It wasn't the train as such, although that was part of it. Logically speaking it made some sense, if the normal train to the school wasn't available, to use a mundane train - but there was still the gaping hole of 'how did one student only get the wrong date on their paperwork' to deal with. After all, it wasn't like the school letters were all written individually, were they? Darcy hoped not, as there was perfectly good spellwork to do the duplication even if someone wasn't just using a computer and printer like a sensible person…
He couldn't think of any of his mothers' stories - and there were many of them - where something like this had happened. People missing the train and having to find their own ways in with many shenanigans and adventures, yes, but not a single one about the staff putting a student on a mundane train on purpose. He supposed that it could happen and simply not be exciting enough to merit a story, but he somehow doubted it.
If this is some sort of kidnapping attempt, it's the weirdest one I've ever heard about. Mr Blomgren had put down his book and was now doing sudoku puzzles, filling in the boxes extremely precisely with a mechanical pencil, still with that politely neutral smile in place. And if it is, they still would have needed to get the paperwork wrong somehow to get me on the wrong platform at the wrong time, and I can't see how that would work either.
Darcy was starting to bitterly regret not having his own book to hand. He hadn't expected to need it; he was a pretty socially outgoing boy by nature, and from every story he'd had from his mothers about the train to school he'd been planning to spend the entire trip getting to know his new yearmates. While there were people in the carriage he felt he could probably have an interesting conversation with - the person with purple hair and at least eight piercings he could see, a sweet little old lady whose embroidery included the words 'Bless this mess', a few others with similar quirks - this didn't feel like the sort of place where just getting up and going to chat would be tolerated, never mind encouraged.
Truth be told, he'd never spent this much time around mundanes before without his family, and it was starting to make Darcy nervous. And anxiety was a bad thing when you were a bit of a magical overachiever who still had enough self-awareness to know you didn't have the control that someone with more experience might have…
"Hungry?" Darcy started at the quietly voiced question; Mr Blomgren was looking at him, pencil still poised over the puzzle book. "You're fidgeting, and I'm aware that people of your age often get hungry quickly."
Darcy jumped at the opportunity to at least stretch his legs. "Yeah, kinda…does this train have a trolley or something?"
"I believe there is an 'or something'," Mr Blomgren replied. "Do you have money? If so, you may have ten minutes to find food and return - if not, I am willing to loan you some against a future repayment." There was an edge of anticipation to the polite smile now, something almost predatory.
Darcy checked a pocket. "I think I probably have enough, thank you." It wasn't obvious unless you were really looking for it, but Mr Blomgren seemed almost disappointed at the results; he stood up and edged out into the aisle, waving Darcy through without a word. Darcy did his best to scramble out politely then set off down the train at a pointed amble; in truth he had no idea whether the change in his pocket would be anywhere near enough, but he suddenly had an urge to never be in debt to Mr Blomgren ever.
---
With every step, Darcy felt more and more out of her depth. She'd made fun of the idea of the school having 'progressive principles' when her dad had brought them up as from experience 'progressive principles' meant 'a handful of Asian kids and everyone can wear trousers' but now here, in person, even just on the train…she just wasn't used to not being the odd one out. Okay, so the white kids were still the biggest group, but as she shuffled along the aisle it felt like she saw every tone of skin there was - true or not. And so many - the carriage felt endless. She glanced up at the nearest seat back and scowled out of surprise - she was pretty sure train carriages didn't normally have seats in the two hundreds, and she still wasn't near the end door.
She tried to keep her balance as the train jerked into motion but had to resort to grabbing the offending seat back to stay upright. The stumble forced her to look along the carriage instead of at knee level; exactly as she'd been trying to avoid doing, she instantly caught the eye of someone sitting a few rows down. To Darcy's surprise the boy waved at her, hazel eyes sparkling in an olive face. Warily, swaying with the train's motion despite her best efforts, she slowly walked the last few steps to the set of seats and dropped down into the nearest empty one, bag pulled up onto her lap protectively despite the table in the way. The other two occupants of the set of four seats gave her almost identical 'you too?' looks of amusement despite them being framed so differently - one all fawn-coloured angles and edges under a shock of black hair, the other milk-pale curves surrounding a button nose. The boy with the hazel eyes looked almost disappointed for a moment at having filled the bank of seats, then caught Darcy's eye again with a hopeful smile.
“Sorry, you had the New Student face and I thought it might be nice to get as many new people together as I could as we’ll all be in the same year group, maybe even the same House?” he offered, then held out his hand. “Matthew, Matthew Taylor, but you can call me Mattie like everyone else.”
Darcy looked at the hand - then she noticed the way Mattie’s face started to fall when she didn’t take it. Not willing to be a monster on her very first day she tentatively shook Mattie’s hand, his smile lighting up again as she did so. “Darcy,” she said, unwilling to give anything more until she’d got the measure of the people around her - but from how he beamed it was like she’d given Mattie the moon.
“Nice to meet you Darcy, and these are -”
“Able to introduce ourselves, Matthew,” the boy sitting next to him said, coolly amused. Mattie ducked his head, rather like a puppy tapped on the nose for a minor misdemeanour. While Darcy could understand not wanting someone else to speak on one’s behalf that way, Mattie’s reaction was enough to make her bristle just a little for his sake, locking eyes with the boy with a touch of challenge. Evidently this was the right reaction if his sardonic grin was anything to go by; he nodded his head, just a little, as though conceding a point. “Rakesh,” he said simply.
“And I’m Eloise,” the pale girl opposite spoke up, having been watching the interplay like a spectator at a tennis match, green eyes twinkling. “Are you excited? My brothers have told me all about their first years, and of course my parents and and all their siblings have weighed in and so on and so forth.”
Darcy hesitated. “Well, I’ve been to boarding schools before,” she admitted, “But not this one, and…”
Eloise put a hand over her mouth. “Goodness, are you a first-of?” she practically squeaked, “A first of family, I mean?” Darcy barely had the opportunity to draw breath before Eloise continued, “Don’t worry, Rakesh and I know everything there is to know about the school and well, you probably won’t have done much in the way of prep work at home I suppose, unless they ask you to do some before first term? Although you wouldn’t be able to practice anything so I suppose it would be better to wait-”
Rakesh leaned forwards and patted Eloise on the shoulder. “Breathe, Elly,” he said in not unkind admonishment. Eloise gulped down whatever she was going to say next, an unspoken apology in her eyes.
“It’s okay,” Mattie said comfortingly, apparently misunderstanding the look on Darcy’s face, “Most people are going to be willing to help until you catch up, and the ones that aren’t aren’t worth thinking about. Mum always says that it’s good to see new blood about the place.”
Rakesh stiffened a little, perhaps only noticeable to Darcy because she knew that reaction in herself. “Hang on…Taylor…does that make you the Bread Witch’s son?”
Mattie looked torn between pride and embarrassment. “Ye-es…although she’s the Home Ec. teacher, not the Bread Witch. But she is really, really good with bread.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her, I’ve heard a lot of good things from the Bothers - my brothers, I mean,” Eloise cut in. “And that means you know all the current school gossip?” she added hopefully, while Rakesh settled back in his seat with a thoughtful look.
Darcy kept quiet, letting the conversation - well, gossip - wash over her. She couldn’t exactly say what it as that was bothering her, only…there were hints of things being skimmed over that she really wanted to ask questions about, but got the feeling that asking would only draw too much attention. Like why the school sounded so exclusive despite her getting accepted, and what she was going to have to catch up on - and why some of the gossip sounded subtly off, like there was a whole new set of slang she was going to have to learn before it all made sense?
---
Darcy looked sadly at the sandwich in his hand, bought to fit with the cover story rather than out of any real hunger. Unfortunately he could already hear his Mama’s voice pointing out that there were starving children in other parts of the world - and no he can’t just teleport the offending food there, that’s not how it works - and so on and so forth. But honestly, if this was the normal standard for mundanes, no wonder so many of them on the train looked vaguely depressed.
Trying to find somewhere quiet to ring…well, somebody, he hadn’t decided who was going to be the right balance of ‘able to help’ and ‘not likely to go into a flap’ yet, had also turned out to be a bust. In theory the train had toilets and vestibules where someone might be able to get some privacy, but the former were mostly taped off with a variety of worrying notices and the latter were all full of what looked like students sitting on all of their worldly goods. He did consider whether any of them might be a dragon in human shape literally travelling with their hoard but he lacked any way to tell subtly and didn’t feel that outright asking was a good idea.
Defeated, Darcy sloped back to his seat and Mr Blomgren.
Mr Blomgren wasn’t sitting there tapping his watch, but Darcy got the distinct impression this was only because it would have drawn too much attention. He kept his head down as the secretary stood up and allowed him to slide back into place, the grey man’s neutral expression cracking around the edges.
“I believe,” Mr Blomgren said with just a touch of annoyance, “That you were allowed no more than ten minutes? While I appreciate thirty seconds will not, in the grand scheme of things, make of a difference, it is not an auspicious start.”
Normally Darcy was fairly honest to adults - that was Mum’s bad influence - but this time he felt that perhaps telling someone who may or may not be his kidnapper the whole truth was the best idea. He shrugged. “Sorry, there was a queue.”
It was weird how Mr Blomgren looked at him, like he was trying to catch out the lie - but it was true that there had been a queue for the horrible sandwiches, it just wasn’t the whole truth. It was very hard not to breathe a sigh of relief when Mr Blomgren sat back, dissatisfaction showing for a scant second before being whisked away behind the professional mask.
Then Mr Blomgren looked pointedly at the Sandwich of Despair.
“I also believe that the whole purpose of your little jaunt was to acquire sustenance?” he asked. “Are you no longer hungry?”
As admitting that he’d never really been hungry was not an option, Darcy went for the option of stalling - and maybe getting some concrete information if he was lucky. “Actually, I was wondering if I should wait a bit, if we’re going to be on the train for a while…? No point eating now if I’m only going to get peckish again later.”
To his surprise, Mr Blomgren looked thoughtful at this. “What would be the normal time period in which you would expect to become ‘peckish’ once again?”
Darcy shrugged again while he tried to come up with a good answer. “It’s only a sandwich, so…three hours, maybe?”
“I see,” Mr Blomgren replied, his features settling back into the blank mask even as he picked up the puzzle book and pencil once more. “As within that time frame we should arrive at the school, it would be better for you to eat the sandwich now, as then it will not be an inconvenience to be dealt with on arrival.”
Darcy knew that his bluff had been called and could see no other way out. Trying not to look too reluctant he unwrapped the horrible sandwich and took a bite.
It wasn’t as terrible as it had looked, although that was still a pretty low bar; Darcy chewed grimly and wished he’d given in to Mama’s offer of packing him some lunch but no, he’d had to want to avoid giving people the impression of being a mothers’ boy… The only good thing about this, he thought as he swallowed, is that anything that happens today after this has to be an improvement.
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SYJKR Chapter 3
Urgh...trains… Darcy checked her watch again, despite knowing it would make no difference to her train being late. Her grandad told her once that back when he was young the trains had run on time, more frequently and to more places - she was still pretty sure this was a fairy tale he made up for her amusement. She tried not to sigh and leant back on the seat, closing her eyes; there was still plenty of time to make her final connection, the one that would get her to the school - she just hated when her schedule was off.
It really wasn't helping that she was on her own for this trip. Normally her dad would accompany her, but this time there was a storm cell or some other big weather coming in that the helicopter out to the rig needed to beat and he'd had to leave the day before her train. She'd spent a boring night on her own watching a film - normally something she and Dad would do together, under a blanket with popcorn - and had had to do the whole locking up the house business so carefully this morning on her way out. On one hand she was thrilled that her dad trusted her that much to look after things for one night and get herself to school (even if she did have a handwritten letter with a phone number in case of worried adults); on the other, she only ever got school holidays with him these days and even then not all of them, and she really begrudged having the time together stolen.
"The next station will be Birmingham New Street. Change here for -" Darcy was already up and moving, well aware of how many bags she was going to have to wrestle down from the racks and how many people she would need to shove past. It might only have been a few years of navigating public transport for boarding school but she considered herself a veteran, hardened by the perils of vestibule and ticket barriers and awkward stairs alike. Happily the combination of age and size of bags inspired some charity from her fellow passengers for once; Darcy popped out of the door with some help from a solid young woman behind her, touched by the unexpected courtesy. She piled up her smaller bags onto her wheeled duffel, and trundled unstoppably to the nearest departures board.
Typical. Her platform was at the far end of the station. Darcy's arms and shoulders ached already - even with careful packing and good cases everything she needed for a term was a heavy weight to drag about, and it had been a long day - but she consoled herself with the thought that this was the last leg, and a good long sit down would hopefully be followed by convenient buses and maybe even school staff to help carry and load. It was a good thought, and it served her well right up to the point when someone crashed into her.
At a guess, the boy (who had blatantly not been looking where he was going) was about her age, and all knees and elbows with it. Either the violence of the collision had killed his hair tie or it had been his hair staging an attack that had distracted him at the crucial moment, a chestnut mane that Darcy might have been tempted to commit at least a mugging for when she was younger. The problem had been compounded by the hefty wooden trunk he'd been dragging along behind him, inexpertly strapped to a folding trolley too small for it and apparently inclined to go for the ankles in the style of Pratchett's Luggage.
As it was, there were even odds as to whether Darcy would manage to disentangle herself before the hot blush rapidly covering his sharp cheekbones caused him to spontaneously combust, especially as every effort he made to help only got in her way. He didn't mean it, losing your temper will only make things worse, just get going before anyone gets offended- The litany in her mind was a familiar annoyance, and easy to concentrate on to avoid letting rip on an idiot who was going to make her late from his own inattention.
Before Darcy could struggle to her feet, the boy's reinforcements arrived - two women, one with the same chestnut hair but neatly (even ruthlessly) tied back, and one with those high cheekbones and sandy complexion. Behind them trailed a younger child who looked like they'd fallen so hard through an avant-garde fashion catalogue it was impossible to guess a gender, and who looked to be having to restrain themselves from laughing at the mess. Darcy found herself being picked up and dusted off and apologised to with cheerfully brisk efficiency, barely having time to bristle at the over-familiarity before the group was moving off again. Under the admonishments of what she guessed were mother and auntie to "pay more attention, trouble, we don't have time to waste," and so on, the boy looked back over his shoulder and mouthed, "Sorry!" Whether it was for the collision or for his family, Darcy wasn't entirely sure…
Still, the women were right - time was running short. Darcy picked up the pace a little, her duffel's wheels merrily click-clacking over the tactile strips and bumps for the ramps, and finally reached the lift for platform 12b. To her surprise, waiting on the platform was a woman waving a sign for "Deighby's Chase" with some vigour, checking tickets and directing what Darcy guessed had to be her fellow students onto the train. Feeling suddenly shy Darcy approached cautiously, ticket awkwardly wrestled out of her bag and held out like a shield. Closer to the woman - a teacher? - was even more intimidating; there was a presence to her that suggested she could command a volcano to lie down and stop making a fuss, and if it wasn't for the kindly enthusiasm in her eyes Darcy might well have considered trying to sneak in behind someone else. Between the olives and greens of her outfit, the warm beige of her skin, and the wrinkles of apparently a whole lifetime of laughter, she put Darcy in mind of a tree that had seen several centuries and planned to see several more.
"Just in time, dear," the woman twinkled as she read off the train ticket, "get yourself settled anywhere at this end of the train, you'll know the boundary when you see it. First year I'm guessing?" Darcy barely had time to nod before she continued, "Then stay on the train until the prefects tell you to get off, all right? We'll be switching lines somewhere between stations, you'll feel a bit of a bump when that happens so don't worry about it. Now go on, scoot!" Feeling somewhat out of her depth, Darcy dragged herself and her bags onto the train.
---
Darcy wedged himself rather grimly further into the gap between his trunk and the back wall of the vehicle his mothers affectionately referred to as the Battle Bus - an ancient and heavily converted van that these days was held together with more spellwork and duct tape than steel. It was practically free to run due to some judicious replacements of key engine parts, never broke down (for too long), and Smokey couldn't be seen as long as he was in the back, but it wasn't exactly what you'd call comfortable. Especially if, as in Darcy's case, you were stuck sitting in the back with an excitable drake and some really heavy luggage trying to keep everything from squashing (or setting fire to) everything else.
As for why Darcy was sitting in the back with Smokey rather than up front, that was his mothers' fault. It wasn't as if they hadn't had plenty of time to organise a pet-sitter for the day, but Mama had been busy with a new project and Mum...well, organising wasn't exactly her forte. In theory Robin could just about be trusted to look after house and drake for the day but Darcy's mothers were insistent that everyone was going to wave Darcy off at the station properly - which was why Robin was up front in relative comfort and Darcy was hanging onto strapping and Smokey's collar with equal determination.
It was a relief when the van finally parked up at the station; Darcy could just see Mum pretending to steer while it got on with it through the slit window installed in the divider. That one wasn't strictly on the list of permitted enchantments for mundane vehicles - at least, not ones quite so old and crunchy - but one of his uncles had installed it as a 'trial run' years ago and somehow had failed to ever get around to removing it again. Quite a few of the enchantments on the van were like that, when he thought about it, but as they harmed no one he wasn't going to complain.
Unlike having to explain to Smokey why he was being left in the back of the van while all his people went elsewhere. Darcy was definitely going to complain about that one. The drake, never one for behaving at the best of times, seemed determined not to go in his crate and instead wriggle out of the van door at the earliest opportunity. "Come on, you annoying pest!" Darcy muttered through gritted teeth; Smokey turned sorrowful eyes on him and whined.
The back door of the van opened just enough for Mama to push a hand through, charcoal biscuit at the ready. Smokey sat up and begged; a deft flick of the wrist sent the biscuit into the open door of the crate, pursued by the drake. Darcy slammed the crate door behind the drake, just missing the tip of his tail. "See," Mama said briskly, "Not difficult at all - now come on, you're going to be late!" Darcy bit back a reply and concentrated on dragging his trunk out of the van, equally aided and hampered by the makeshift trolley strapped onto it. The heavy rucksack followed and was summarily hoisted onto his back by Mum, and the cavalcade set off across the station.
It didn't take Darcy very long to realise that while adding wheels to the trunk technically made it easier to move, what they actually achieved was bordering on sentient malevolence. Momentum was the problem; at very low speeds everything was fine, but there was no such thing when his mothers were determined to get him to his train on time. The moment he got it rolling fast enough to satisfy them was also the moment when it would attempt to bite his ankles if his pace dropped the slightest. At the same time, attempting to use his own weight to control the thing meant leaning back slightly, and whenever he did that the rucksack would go for his ponytail and try to catch it in the top zip.
It was that latter that was his undoing. Darcy felt the zip catch and tried to jerk his hair safely away; unfortunately the pressure caused his hair band - which he'd noted as being near the end of its life only this morning - to split with an audible 'ping!'. The movement also caused his hair, unruly at the best of times, to fling itself forward and cover his face. With the trunk nipping at his ankles Darcy couldn't easily free up a hand to clear his vision; he attempted to flick some of his hair out of the way with a head toss, but this only meant some of it caught in the zip again, this time pulling his head around as well.
It really was no wonder that he promptly crashed into someone, given how his day had gone so far. The other person managed to resist his momentum for a breath before they both went down together in a pile of arms and legs and cursing and apologies. Darcy barely had time to register the shock of black braids framing the girl's sepia-toned expression of justifiable annoyance before his family showed up and started mothering both of them impartially and with brisk efficiency. This only embarrassed Darcy more even though he understood why his mothers were doing it, given the time constraints, but they could have at least asked first. He didn't even get the chance to apologise himself as Mama got in there first while Mum dusted him off and redistributed his bags; the best he could manage, knowing he was blushing and hating himself for it, was to mouth "Sorry!" over his shoulder as his family dragged him off again, not entirely sure whether he was apologising for the collision, his family or both.
On the plus side, Mama took charge of the trunk to avoid any more chance of them being late for the train, and Robin produced a spare hair band (sparkly) from their pocket, so Darcy was at least in a lot less danger of maiming on the charge to platform 2. Darcy had very mixed feelings when they reached the last point that someone without a ticket could get to - preemptive homesickness and loneliness crashed headfirst into the embarrassment of parents as Mum kept giving him less and less helpful advice and Mama fussed at him. In the end he was very grateful to Robin for a pointed comment about how time was ticking away and he was allowed to go through the barriers alone, even with part of his heart crying to be allowed to go home.
The platform was a lot quieter than Darcy expected from his mothers' descriptions - no hoards of teenagers of all shapes and sizes trying to pile onto the train - but there was a blond young man in a smart suit holding a sign for "St Digby's" waiting for him.
"Darcy Symonds?" The man's voice was brisk, but not unfriendly, and Darcy thought he could see a sparkle in the grey eyes. Darcy nodded, cautiously.
"You'll have to excuse us; we only realised that the arrival date on your paperwork was wrong when you failed to arrive with everyone else yesterday, and the school agreed it would be easier to collect you on your own rather than change plans at the last minute." The man let go of the sign with one hand and proffered it for a shake. "Peter Blomgren, school secretary."
Darcy took Mr Blomgren's hand and gave it a polite shake as apparently expected. "Charmed," he responded on autopilot, drawing a quirk of a smile from Mr Blomgren. Any further questions were forestalled by the announcer making it clear that the train about to leave from platform 2 was definitely about to leave - Mr Blomgren took charge of the trunk and courteously held the door for Darcy. It didn't take long for them to find their seats and settle in; Mr Blomgren promptly pulled out a book, leaving Darcy to stare out the window as the train pulled away...
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SYJKR Chapter 2
I've been stuck on chapter 7 onwards for a while, so I figure I might as well share what I've got so far to see if it unsticks me - enjoy!
@elodieunderglass - I don't know if this quite fits your acorn definition, but I enjoyed writing it.
The rain is coming; I can smell it on the wind that's picking up, hurrying me home from my mandatory lunchtime mental health walk. I'm already fishing my keys out of handbag in anticipation of getting under cover when I see it.
There's a patch of concrete anchoring a lampost. Sat in the middle of the swathe of grey is a bumblebee, motionless.
I can hear the rain now, the first spatters starting to stain the tarmac. But there's a handy stick, and I know the rose out front has put on a sudden burst of post-drought flowers.
"Trust me," I murmur encouragingly as I present the stick.
Bumblebees are remarkably trusting creatures.
She's barely climbed aboard - antennae waving, wings twitching, suddenly alive in a way she couldn't be on the concrete - before I pelt the last ten metres, as slick and smooth as I can to avoid dropping her, and present her to a flower in the lee of the broom. She scrambles aboard, eager to feed; I unconsciously shield her from the rising storm until I'm certain she's secure, then backtrack out of the flowerbed and up the steps to my front door.
My back is soaked, but watching the fuzzy enthusiast now crawling all over the roses? My heart is warm.
Sorry for the long gap, depression is a bitch. What follows is not fiction -- sometimes reality is surreal.
Me and the Husbeast are keen hikers. In particular, once a year we like to do a Middle Class Hiking Week: we arrange a series of hotels or bnbs and someone to move our luggage between them so we can do the walking part in some degree of comfort. Don't get me wrong, we're still covering 100km+ in six days, we just get to carry more than two pairs of pants while we do so.
This year we chose the old smugglers' paths on the northern end of Catalonia. For those not acquainted with Europe, Catalonia is the bit of Spain up near the Pyrenees and the French border, and it's not entirely happy about being part of Spain. There's the local language -- Catalan -- which is a bit of a mash-up of Castillan Spanish, Pyrenean French, Basque, and its own evolved grammar and pronunciation, but due to both anti-Spanish sentiment and it being a holiday destination for quite a bit of Western Europe you're as likely to hear English, French, Spanish, Italian, and, for some reason, Dutch, as you are Catalan.
Which for me gets interesting because while I'm not fluent in most of these languages I can hold a conversation in several of them and get the gist in the others. As such, for the entire week I had a short delay at the start of any interaction while my brain caught up with what language I was working in.
The other important detail is that if you're hiking -- even if you're in a town at the time -- if someone asks for help and you can give it, you help. This is anything from guiding people over a tricky section of path to giving them a water top-up if you have spare to basic first aid.
With this scene setting in mind...
On our first day (which technically wasn't part of the hike but due to enthusiasm still ended up racking up 23km), we were on our way to a vineyard just outside of town where we'd had a tour and tasting arranged when an older lady with a bicycle frantically asked us to stop.
After the aforementioned delay while my brain caught up with language (French), it became clear to me that no, she wasn't asking us to stop; she was very specifically asking for the Husbeast. This isn't an uncommon occurence; he's a big, solid, dependable-looking gentleman with a friendly face, while I'm wiry and tend to grin disconcertingly when anxious.
So, assuming bike trouble -- maybe she needed help changing a tyre? -- we stopped.
At which point she extracted an enormous jar of kidney beans in water from her panier bag and handed it to the Husbeast.
She'd been to the supermarket to put together an ad hoc picnic, the jar had defeated her, could this large gentleman get the lid off for her?
It was a bit touch and go, not helped by the fact we were both trying hard not to laugh and it was very stuck, but the Husbeast did indeed manage to use the Power of Big to open the jar.
I think we made it out of earshot before we broke...
Snoepjes of anders ga ik je foppen!
I hope I translated right :D
It's definitely some sort of forest spirit, and it's probably a costume. 95% certain.
Happy Halloween, Xan!
Your treat is a large, golden brown hazelnut with a tiny crack in one side. When you look at it very closely a faint, silver light seems to be seeping through the crack. Looks like you could break it open...
Nos calan gaef, Laura :)
(The Husbeast is Welsh and understands "celebrating this because it's fun not because it's mine" entirely!)
Ooh, so, I was at a folk music festival recently, and one of the bands (Stonegallows) told us as an intro to one of their songs a Silbury Hill origin story I hadn't come across before.
Would you like to hear the Boots story?
Oh yes, do tell!
Once upon a time, the Devil decided that he felt like getting up to some mischief in Marlborough, so he popped up to Salisbury Plain and started walking. However, it's quite easy to get lost on the Plains (especially before all the tank roads and other military installations were added), so in one particular valley he stopped to ask a shepherd for directions.
The shepherd didn't dare outright refuse but also didn't really want the Devil causing mischief in Marlborough so deliberately gave him bad directions, and as soon as he was out of sight pegged it to town as fast as he could run.
Unsurprisingly the news that the Devil was on the way was not well received by the townsfolk, and there was a lot of panicking and wailing and general carrying on. Then the wisest man in town had an idea.
"Quick!" he said, "everyone go and get me your oldest, most worn boots, and someone get me a big sack!" In a remarkably short time an enormous pile of boots with worn out soles and flapping leather was shoved into a sack, hoisted onto the back of the wisest man, and off he set.
By coincidence he reached the valley that the shepherd had been in at the same time that a now very lost Devil returned to it. "Sir!" cried the Devil, "Do you know how to get to Marlborough? A shepherd gave me directions and I've been walking many hours."
"And you'll be walking even more," replied the wisest man. "You see all these boots on my back? They were new when I left Marlborough."
"To wear through that many boots, that's too far for me and I have too much else to do!" With that, the Devil left the Plains to go find somewhere a bit closer to do mischief.
And once the wisest man finished laughing, he dumped the bag of boots in the valley rather than carrying them home; over time soil piled up and grass grew in top, and that's Silbury Hill.
SYJKR: Chapter 1
See previous comment about sensitivity editing - I am pretty damn white, one of the protagonists very much isn't, and while I'm trying to do my research I'm expecting to get things wrong in draft. Reblogs are off, please be kind in comments.
SYJKR: Prologue
I had told myself I wasn't going to post much SYJKR here as I might like to publish if I ever finish it; that said, given how much I enjoyed of T. Kingfisher's work back when she was posting large chunks on LJ, it might be a tad hypocritical.
So. Reblogs are turned off, everything else is going under a Read More, and if you do read this bear in mind that this is very much the unedited first draft and I am going to be getting So Many sensitivity reads done if there's a chance it's going to a publisher...
OC Incorrect Quote Tag
Not gonna lie, the long silence has been down to a horrible case of winter blues, so thank you @laurasimonsdaughter for giving me something to start kicking my brain into gear again.
@ambiguouspuzuma, if you want the tag game it's yours :)
I'm going to include some of my various RP characters in this because a) why the heck not and b) it's not like I haven't written ridiculous amounts of backplot and sidestory for them anyway. Heck, Harlequin has an entire novella...
Okay, let's start with SYJKR...where, because I'm a masochist and because Shakespearean identity comedy is fun, both main characters have the same name. I'm using the notation that my alpha readers have decided on to tell them apart.
m!Darcy: I hate to say ‘I told you so’— f!Darcy: No, you don’t. You would marry 'I told you so’ and have a baby with it and buy adjoining burial plots.
That is, by the point in the story that Darcy and Darcy finally meet, not a bad match for how they'll be interacting with each other.
Bronwyn: Darcy, what did you just do!? f!Darcy: I took your advice. I stopped running from the problem and I tackled it head on. Bronwyn: I meant try emotional honesty, not murder!!
Not sure Darcy would ever stoop to murder, but over-enthusiastically following Bronwyn's advice? Yep!
Jodie: I have feelings for you. m!Darcy: Why? What's wrong with you? Are you sure you're okay?
*cackles* Yeah...he's a doofus, and I like him that way.
Then we move onto Monster of the Week:
Mel: Look, Colin, it's the third time this week you had a mental breakdown and it's Monday.
No comment :D
Mel: You're ignoring all your problems. Colin: I know. Mel: You also know it's an unhealthy coping mechanism? Colin: I'm ignoring that fact as well. Mel:
Even bigger no comment :D
So RanVeer from the Mistborn campaign, they're a bit more sensible, right?
RanVeer: I hate how you're just born out of nowhere, and you're forced to go to school and get education so you can get a job. What if I wanted to be a duck? No one ever asked me if I want to be a duck!
Given what kandra are and what they do (shapeshifters and spy on people respectively), and given that RanVeer's list of animals they have been on the job has only been restricted by body mass...yeah.
Let's see...the surveyor and Gull the dryad?
Surveyor: Wake up! The sun is shining! Gull: What do you want me to do, photosynthesis?
Possibly funnier the other way around, but yes.
That's probably enough for now - if you want more writing though, please feel free to help by dropping a prompt or a request in the ask box :)
