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mini_nanowrimo
A little more silliness, and some introspection from Turnspit...
previous
After the first humiliation the day could not get worse, Turnspit hoped. Iros had not calmed his lust in the presence of people of good character and the resultant commotion was more than slightly embarrassing. It wasn't the immorality of what Iros did with him that was so vexing, it was the immodesty that the aughisky flaunted their shame with. Especially since Turnspit had lapsed and let himself enjoying the sensation of passion this morning.
The embarrassment of waking their hostess had quickly been abandoned under Iros' determined silliness. Now that he was more awake, the lack of dignity and modesty was something Turnspit was ruing fretfully.
He hoped he had not offended Lurcher too much. Iros did not seemed concerned, but as far as Turnspit had seen, the aughisky lived his life like a grasshopper, moving from one adventure to the next. As he was not the one who would be left behind like a lamed horse – again – Turnspit wished that Iros would not make things difficult for himself by shameless misbehavior.
Breakfast finished, the members of the household scatted to various tasks. Turnspit followed Lurcher out to the odd long open gallery and stopped in confusion as she climbed up a post. She shifted a trapdoor under the eaves and disappeared. He was about to follow after, when an enormous basket came tumbling through the opening. More baskets came down, and the women of the household came out to collect them, chattering like a flock of geese.
They pulled the baskets onto their backs, tied across the shoulders with tumplines. Turnspit marveled at the ease of it, as he could not remember any basket so large; they seemed to function as rucksacks, but larger and more sturdy.
Lurcher's girl, Honeythief by name, called him over and made to fit him with one. He looked dubiously at her. Only women, and some of the taller girls and young boys were bearing baskets. The young men were already walking through the palisade with slung bows and muskets.
"Are you sure you're not trying to get me to do your work for you?" Turnspit asked.
The girl giggled, her teeth flashing against her bronze skin. "No! I've got my own basket! This one is for you, so you can help with the harvest."
He sighed. So he was to help reap wheat today, then. He seem to have been relegated to helping the women – work for someone too ill or unreliable to do men's work of hunting. The worst of it was that he really was too infirm to do more than haul the basket onto his back and follow the women and children into the fields.
As they walked, he looked round. The surrounding hills were even odder in the day than they had appeared in the night. When he and Iros had arrived, the fading twilight had obscured the stone terraces marching up the hills in neat formation. They rose like stair steps from the valley floor, green fields clad in grey rock.
Turnspit wondered how the villagers had shaped the hills into this. It seemed beyond mortal reach to change the entire land this way. Of course, looking sideways at Iros who had just come along side, the terraces need not be shaped by mortal hands at all.
Iros was leading a flock of the most ridiculous looking creatures – spindly legs, large sheepish heads on long skinny necks, bodies fat with long ringlets – and clucking to them like a goosegirl with her birds.
"What are those? And what are you doing with them?"
"Llamas. Aren't they lovely?" Iros scratched the ear of one beast who had insinuated its head under his fingers. It made a bizarre noise – possibly one of enjoyment.
"They look like camels," Turnspit said. "Shrunken, hairy camels, with no humps."
Iros sighed. "They're llamas, not camels. This isn't like the rabbits again, is it?"
"What's wrong with rabbits?" Honeythief asked, coming up through the flock to pace behind them as they followed the rest of the household towards the hills and presumably to the field to be harvested.
"He won't eat rabbits, no matter how I cook them. He thinks they're poisonous."
Turnspit hissed, "They're unfit to eat! Not poisonous."
Honeythief gave him a dubious look, rolled her eyes, and scurried past to catch up with her mother.
"Thank you," Turnspit growled. "The whole household will hear that by noon. They're going to think I'm crazy!"
Iros smiled, "Turnspit, you are crazy. I like you anyway. You're my good Dog."
next
mini_nanowrimoA little more silliness, and some introspection from Turnspit...
previous
After the first humiliation the day could not get worse, Turnspit hoped. Iros had not calmed his lust in the presence of people of good character and the resultant commotion was more than slightly embarrassing. It wasn't the immorality of what Iros did with him that was so vexing, it was the immodesty that the aughisky flaunted their shame with. Especially since Turnspit had lapsed and let himself enjoying the sensation of passion this morning.
The embarrassment of waking their hostess had quickly been abandoned under Iros' determined silliness. Now that he was more awake, the lack of dignity and modesty was something Turnspit was ruing fretfully.
He hoped he had not offended Lurcher too much. Iros did not seemed concerned, but as far as Turnspit had seen, the aughisky lived his life like a grasshopper, moving from one adventure to the next. As he was not the one who would be left behind like a lamed horse – again – Turnspit wished that Iros would not make things difficult for himself by shameless misbehavior.
Breakfast finished, the members of the household scatted to various tasks. Turnspit followed Lurcher out to the odd long open gallery and stopped in confusion as she climbed up a post. She shifted a trapdoor under the eaves and disappeared. He was about to follow after, when an enormous basket came tumbling through the opening. More baskets came down, and the women of the household came out to collect them, chattering like a flock of geese.
They pulled the baskets onto their backs, tied across the shoulders with tumplines. Turnspit marveled at the ease of it, as he could not remember any basket so large; they seemed to function as rucksacks, but larger and more sturdy.
Lurcher's girl, Honeythief by name, called him over and made to fit him with one. He looked dubiously at her. Only women, and some of the taller girls and young boys were bearing baskets. The young men were already walking through the palisade with slung bows and muskets.
"Are you sure you're not trying to get me to do your work for you?" Turnspit asked.
The girl giggled, her teeth flashing against her bronze skin. "No! I've got my own basket! This one is for you, so you can help with the harvest."
He sighed. So he was to help reap wheat today, then. He seem to have been relegated to helping the women – work for someone too ill or unreliable to do men's work of hunting. The worst of it was that he really was too infirm to do more than haul the basket onto his back and follow the women and children into the fields.
As they walked, he looked round. The surrounding hills were even odder in the day than they had appeared in the night. When he and Iros had arrived, the fading twilight had obscured the stone terraces marching up the hills in neat formation. They rose like stair steps from the valley floor, green fields clad in grey rock.
Turnspit wondered how the villagers had shaped the hills into this. It seemed beyond mortal reach to change the entire land this way. Of course, looking sideways at Iros who had just come along side, the terraces need not be shaped by mortal hands at all.
Iros was leading a flock of the most ridiculous looking creatures – spindly legs, large sheepish heads on long skinny necks, bodies fat with long ringlets – and clucking to them like a goosegirl with her birds.
"What are those? And what are you doing with them?"
"Llamas. Aren't they lovely?" Iros scratched the ear of one beast who had insinuated its head under his fingers. It made a bizarre noise – possibly one of enjoyment.
"They look like camels," Turnspit said. "Shrunken, hairy camels, with no humps."
Iros sighed. "They're llamas, not camels. This isn't like the rabbits again, is it?"
"What's wrong with rabbits?" Honeythief asked, coming up through the flock to pace behind them as they followed the rest of the household towards the hills and presumably to the field to be harvested.
"He won't eat rabbits, no matter how I cook them. He thinks they're poisonous."
Turnspit hissed, "They're unfit to eat! Not poisonous."
Honeythief gave him a dubious look, rolled her eyes, and scurried past to catch up with her mother.
"Thank you," Turnspit growled. "The whole household will hear that by noon. They're going to think I'm crazy!"
Iros smiled, "Turnspit, you are crazy. I like you anyway. You're my good Dog."
next
no subject
In this story, does Iros have his other-shape?
no subject