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This scene is actually before the other two I've written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mini_nanowrimo. And it's kind of depressing and weird.
previous, though I will insert more scenes betweeen
Turnspit came into the sun gallery wet from the shower corridor. He shivered a bit in the warm air, as he was only wearing cooling bath water. All he wanted was his ration of kibble and a soft berth under the light pipes. Ideally, he wanted a cloth to rub away the wet grime before it dried back onto his skin, but they were out of everything in the showers this shift, and scrubbing with water and hands only did so much.
A double-tone code thumped rhythmically through the floor; Turnspit winced at the familiar ache as his clockwork responded. The code was his and it was calling him to Test-to-Destruction's workspace in the sun gallery.
He spent a long moment paused, resisting the clockwork. It was a futile effort, as the pressure to move was more urgent than what he felt when he needed to piss and the relief stronger when he gave into it.
Test-to-Destruction was puttering among the benches and boxes again, and only absently noticed Turnspit when he arrived. The Brock continued at whatever he was doing – Turnspit had no idea what the bird's nest of shiny wire was for – and didn't even look up as Turnspit lowered himself onto the examination seat.
"That won't do," the Brock finally looked up and muttered. Turnspit resigned himself when Test-to-Destruction rummaged for and found a razor. He had the shortest hair of any of his work-gang, six or dozencount, because of the Brocks and their tinkering. Almost every sun-shift included Test-to-Destruction or one of the other clockwork artificers wanting to examine him. That meant a shaving away his hair any time it became thick enough to cover the clockwork patterns on his scalp, because whatever the Brocks could read in the changing shapes was fascinating to them.
Turnspit let himself go blank as Test-to-Destruction pulled his chin down. The scrape of the razor over his scalp was dull and occasionally pulled, but he didn't feel any blood trickles – the Brock was good with his hands. He held still as a Test-to-Destruction poured water over his head and roughly swiped away some of the grime. The Brock only clucked to himself and made notions a wax tablet.
A hand reached out and pulled his head up by his chin, startling him.
"What is this?" Turnspit heard distantly as he tried to repress his rush of excitement. That would lead to the clockwork flooring him in yet another humiliating turn. Instead, he stared up baffled in a pair of black eyes.
An aughisky, here? Why? Why would one of the Riders be down in the deeps of a Brock mine? And why would it be looking at him so?
"This is Six-miner-seventh-file-first-gross. Lovely bit of clockwork, though it's temperamental and needs regular adjustment," Test-to-Destruction said, patting Turnspit's knee with an artificer's pride in a job well done. "It's primarily food-motivated, which is tricky… they can stop eating if all their task-work is driven by hunger. We usually try to motivate them with their urge to fornicate, but this one--"
"Turnspit?" the aughisky asked over the Brock's rambling. "Turnspit of Brewster's Holding?"
Turnspit blinked. He was recognized? Someone knew his name..? Who was this aughisky?
He was tall, very tall and long-legged. Almost spidery in his lankiness. Black eyes – low rank. Black hair – a given for an aughisky – in a wealthy of braids like a crown of serpents. Braids which smelled of hemp oil.
"Rider Iros," he choked out, and appallingly, began to weep.
"Hey now, hush now," the aughisky soothed, rubbing long fingers gently up Turnspit's neck and behind his ear.
It wasn't helping. He felt glassy, and knew he would soon be on the floor, shivering, as the clockwork stopped him from fighting or screaming. It had happened before, and it was terrible, not just for the humiliation, but for the helplessness.
He did the only thing he could think of and turned his head into the aughisky's hand, and licked the palm.
Iros jerked in shock, but offered his hand out, letting Turnspit rub his tongue over the pad of the thumb and the lines of the palm.
"Huh," Iros commented, and then his other hand was curled around the nape of Turnspit's neck. It was warm and comforting, and Turnspit leaned against it.
The aughisky frowned, and then pulled his hands back. Turnspit straightened in his seat, distressed and worried he'd offended the Rider with his behavior, but Iros clucked his tongue at him as he pulled a string of dried meat from his jacket.
The Rider looked at it a moment, then smiled and tore off a chunk with his fine sharp teeth. He swallowed it noisily, then ripped away another bit of the meat and offered that in his hand to Turnspit.
He murmured in surprise when Turnspit leaned forward and ate it right out of his hand. But his other hand came back up to rub over Turnspit's skull, and he kept repeating, "Good dog. My good Dog..." as he fed Turnspit from his hand.
next
mini_nanowrimo. And it's kind of depressing and weird.previous, though I will insert more scenes betweeen
Turnspit came into the sun gallery wet from the shower corridor. He shivered a bit in the warm air, as he was only wearing cooling bath water. All he wanted was his ration of kibble and a soft berth under the light pipes. Ideally, he wanted a cloth to rub away the wet grime before it dried back onto his skin, but they were out of everything in the showers this shift, and scrubbing with water and hands only did so much.
A double-tone code thumped rhythmically through the floor; Turnspit winced at the familiar ache as his clockwork responded. The code was his and it was calling him to Test-to-Destruction's workspace in the sun gallery.
He spent a long moment paused, resisting the clockwork. It was a futile effort, as the pressure to move was more urgent than what he felt when he needed to piss and the relief stronger when he gave into it.
Test-to-Destruction was puttering among the benches and boxes again, and only absently noticed Turnspit when he arrived. The Brock continued at whatever he was doing – Turnspit had no idea what the bird's nest of shiny wire was for – and didn't even look up as Turnspit lowered himself onto the examination seat.
"That won't do," the Brock finally looked up and muttered. Turnspit resigned himself when Test-to-Destruction rummaged for and found a razor. He had the shortest hair of any of his work-gang, six or dozencount, because of the Brocks and their tinkering. Almost every sun-shift included Test-to-Destruction or one of the other clockwork artificers wanting to examine him. That meant a shaving away his hair any time it became thick enough to cover the clockwork patterns on his scalp, because whatever the Brocks could read in the changing shapes was fascinating to them.
Turnspit let himself go blank as Test-to-Destruction pulled his chin down. The scrape of the razor over his scalp was dull and occasionally pulled, but he didn't feel any blood trickles – the Brock was good with his hands. He held still as a Test-to-Destruction poured water over his head and roughly swiped away some of the grime. The Brock only clucked to himself and made notions a wax tablet.
A hand reached out and pulled his head up by his chin, startling him.
"What is this?" Turnspit heard distantly as he tried to repress his rush of excitement. That would lead to the clockwork flooring him in yet another humiliating turn. Instead, he stared up baffled in a pair of black eyes.
An aughisky, here? Why? Why would one of the Riders be down in the deeps of a Brock mine? And why would it be looking at him so?
"This is Six-miner-seventh-file-first-gross. Lovely bit of clockwork, though it's temperamental and needs regular adjustment," Test-to-Destruction said, patting Turnspit's knee with an artificer's pride in a job well done. "It's primarily food-motivated, which is tricky… they can stop eating if all their task-work is driven by hunger. We usually try to motivate them with their urge to fornicate, but this one--"
"Turnspit?" the aughisky asked over the Brock's rambling. "Turnspit of Brewster's Holding?"
Turnspit blinked. He was recognized? Someone knew his name..? Who was this aughisky?
He was tall, very tall and long-legged. Almost spidery in his lankiness. Black eyes – low rank. Black hair – a given for an aughisky – in a wealthy of braids like a crown of serpents. Braids which smelled of hemp oil.
"Rider Iros," he choked out, and appallingly, began to weep.
"Hey now, hush now," the aughisky soothed, rubbing long fingers gently up Turnspit's neck and behind his ear.
It wasn't helping. He felt glassy, and knew he would soon be on the floor, shivering, as the clockwork stopped him from fighting or screaming. It had happened before, and it was terrible, not just for the humiliation, but for the helplessness.
He did the only thing he could think of and turned his head into the aughisky's hand, and licked the palm.
Iros jerked in shock, but offered his hand out, letting Turnspit rub his tongue over the pad of the thumb and the lines of the palm.
"Huh," Iros commented, and then his other hand was curled around the nape of Turnspit's neck. It was warm and comforting, and Turnspit leaned against it.
The aughisky frowned, and then pulled his hands back. Turnspit straightened in his seat, distressed and worried he'd offended the Rider with his behavior, but Iros clucked his tongue at him as he pulled a string of dried meat from his jacket.
The Rider looked at it a moment, then smiled and tore off a chunk with his fine sharp teeth. He swallowed it noisily, then ripped away another bit of the meat and offered that in his hand to Turnspit.
He murmured in surprise when Turnspit leaned forward and ate it right out of his hand. But his other hand came back up to rub over Turnspit's skull, and he kept repeating, "Good dog. My good Dog..." as he fed Turnspit from his hand.
next
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