Academia Nut wrote:There are many stories that involve brave knights and princesses that have happy endings.
Peasants and princesses? Not so much.
Pietro may not have much formal education, but he's no dummy.
Poor, poor Pietro.
His Iron Work gear came relatively cheaply, with a little capital or some fast talking "Please just a small golden trinket as proof of your good faith, and I shall return with a king's ransom of Iron." He might be able to make a killing on a naive, unexploited market. And quickly retire before the UnderWorldFolks catch wise. This strikes me sort of like this from atomic rockets
Trade is always a good motive. In H. B. Fyfe's little classic "In Value Deceived", a alien exploration starship is searching for a way to alleviate the famine on their homeworld. They make first contact with a human starship on some barren little world. On a tour of the human's ship, they are thunderstruck when they see the hydroponic installations. It's the key to salvation for their people!
But of course they feign disinterest. They ask for one as a souvenir. They don't notice the similar disinterest with which the humans ask for an alien heating unit. The one that produces all that pesky ash. Stuff like uranium and gold nuggets.
Both aliens and humans are surprised when both parties make quick good-byes after the trade and take off before the trade is regretted. They both think "gee, the other guys act like they cheated us."
'Course he'd still need to bargain his way to freedom, but imagine the benefits, upper worlders get crystally stuff, those gossamer clothes, and whatever random resources the UnderWorlders have, UnderWorlders get cheap clothes, and iron, both things the others want. And since the Spider-Tamers don't seem allergic to Iron in the same way as those "Nasty Elves" it's probably not heresy to trade with them.
The rain it falls on all alike
Upon the just and unjust fella'
But more upon the just one for
The Unjust hath the Just's Umbrella
That gossamer stuff? Spider silk, which is why the heavier stuff is for the richer people. The gossamer fibres are just collected en masse and are fairly flimsy, but good enough for the commoners most of the time. Those with more money wear spider silk that is made from dragline fibres, which require a hell of a lot more work to harvest directly from the spiders, and then have to be weaved together to make fabric, but the final product is several orders of magnitude stronger. Still, they have buttloads of silk.
Of course, Pietro first has to learn to talk to these guys before he can even try to convince them to let him go, especially since he is currently property.
Still, yeah, if he made it back to the surface with just a single bolt of silk from these guys he could probably buy close to a ton of iron ore, or more profitably finished iron goods.
Of course, he would still have to make the same risks vis-a-vis the elves on the surface to get back and forth.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
Of course, Pietro first has to learn to talk to these guys before he can even try to convince them to let him go, especially since he is currently property.
Still, yeah, if he made it back to the surface with just a single bolt of silk from these guys he could probably buy close to a ton of iron ore, or more profitably finished iron goods.
psh, details. I'm sure he (meaning you) can figure that out eventually =P.
Of course, he would still have to make the same risks vis-a-vis the elves on the surface to get back and forth.
And there were already people willing to run the risk of Nasty Elves for an established Dwarven Market. An untouched market? Silk for Iron? Shortage of clothing? Two or three successful caravans and Pietro could almost buy his own duchy to sit astride, and secure (for a price), the trade routes.
That gossamer stuff? Spider silk, which is why the heavier stuff is for the richer people. The gossamer fibres are just collected en masse and are fairly flimsy, but good enough for the commoners most of the time. Those with more money wear spider silk that is made from dragline fibres, which require a hell of a lot more work to harvest directly from the spiders, and then have to be weaved together to make fabric, but the final product is several orders of magnitude stronger. Still, they have buttloads of silk.
My inner economist is just screaming, "See Trade makes everyone better off." I'll shut up about speculative fantasy economic models though.
The rain it falls on all alike
Upon the just and unjust fella'
But more upon the just one for
The Unjust hath the Just's Umbrella
No, no, I like realism, or at least verisimilitude in my more serious stories, even if they involve magic, thus discussing economic factors and models I find highly useful to the crafting of a coherent whole.
That said, should Pietro ever escape and not have the urge to try to call a crusade down on the asses of these guys (I'm not telling) he would be an idiot not to try and open up new markets and make an absurd amount of money. Hell, he could probably trade good quality chain mail for one of some of that gold silk on the first trip, which would be pretty much priceless back home and royalty everywhere would froth at the mouth to get their hands on it to show just how rich and powerful they are.
That said, the underground guys aren't actually suffering any sort of clothing shortage, but that is a plot point for later.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
Academia Nut wrote:
That said, the underground guys aren't actually suffering any sort of clothing shortage, but that is a plot point for later.
Ah I Guess I misunderstood this
The status of these creatures seemed to relate to the thickness of their clothing fabrics, probably related to those gossamer trees he had seen. The commoners got raw gossamer while the nobles and royals got things that required actual weaving. And of course since they lived underground they had never seen wool before.
Maybe a shortage of skill in weaving? Maybe wool wouldn't actually be that valuable then?
The rain it falls on all alike
Upon the just and unjust fella'
But more upon the just one for
The Unjust hath the Just's Umbrella
Wool would probably just be an "exotic" item to them, not very useful in the long run, but fashionable amongst the upper classes for its relative rarity, at least for a time. It's thicker than would be useful in their warm environment, so there wouldn't be much of a market other than the super rich showing off.
On the other hand, you have hit that they don't have many weavers and loom technology is decidedly lacking, but this has more to do with the demand side of the spectrum rather than the supply side. In short, there are cultural reasons for why things are the way they are, but to reveal those would be spoiling.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
New chapter. Decided to keep going with the present for this one, mostly because this could probably be an extension of the last chapter.
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Chapter 5: Introductions
Once the furor over his arrival died down, Red took Pietro’s leash once more and led him away from the Great Hall, into the twisting corridors of what Pietro now called the palace. Two servants followed behind carrying Pietro’s things, although he supposed that they were now Red’s things.
Eventually they entered a large room with numerous pieces of expensive looking furniture, the dominant item being a huge four post bed set with heavy red and black curtains. A large window looked out upon the rest of the estate, the fiery chasm just visible in the distance as a faint line of orange.
Oh mighty Deathlord, please deliver the soul of this servant from evil…
Red directed the servants to set the bundles of gear over to one side while she leads Pietro to a chair, where she directs him to sit down. She then has one of the servants undo his shackles and use the ropes to tie his legs to the chair. Obviously she didn’t want him to try and get away. Finally she had the servant undo the gag about his mouth, allowing him to relax his jaw and spit out some of the fibres.
Pulling up a chair, Red sits down opposite to him and rests her chin upon her hands with her elbows on her knees, peers at him intently.
Pietro blinks before pointing out the obvious, “I don’t know your language.”
Surprisingly, Red squealed with glee like a five year old before chattering on, probably asking him to say something else. Pietro just looks at her funny while trying to understand why speaking would excite her so. Wracking his brain, he eventually decides that like everything else about him, his language, maybe even the sound of his voice, was exotic and strange to her, so she was revelling in her purchase.
“Uh… yeah. Listen, I don’t exactly want to discourage you here but I don’t think you have the right idea about me here…” Pietro began before trailing off as Red looks away in excitement and gestures for his gear to be brought over.
Pietro watches in silence as Red hefts up his hauberk and then babbles excitedly.
“That’s a hauberk,” Pietro said.
Red then scrunches up her face and said, “Thas… ah… hoo- ha- ha…”
“Hauberk,” Pietro repeated, louder and more slowly, seeing as the princess obviously wanted to know the names of all the things she bought.
“Ha-bark,” Red said.
“Hauberk,” Pietro corrects, figuring she would get annoyed if she didn’t have it perfect.
“Hauberk. Hauberk!” Red pronounces slowly before getting the shape of the word in her mouth. Pietro nods, adding in what he hoped would look to them like an encouraging smile.
Clapping enthusiastically, Red turns to her servants, who nod encouragingly. She then hands off the hauberk and takes the coif. Holding it up, she asked, “Hauberk?”
Shaking his head, Pietro replied, “Coif.”
“Coff?” Red asked.
“Coif,” Pietro repeats.
“Coif,” Red said. Pietro nodded again, getting another broad smile from the princess. She then looks over at the hauberk, points to it and said, “Hauberk,” before pointing to the coif in her hands, “Coif.”
Pietro nodded.
Scrunching up her face, she begins, “Thas ah hauberk.”
“That is a hauberk,” Pietro corrected, pronouncing each syllable slowly and separately.
“That is a hauberk,” Red adjusted before pointing to the coif and saying, “That is a coif.”
Nodding, Pietro said, “Yes.”
“Yous?” Red asked. Pietro corrected her pronunciation again and she said, “Yes?” With a confirmation that she was saying the word correctly, she points to the hauberk and asked, “That is a hauberk.”
“Yes.”
Pointed to the coif, “That is a hauberk.”
Ah, clever. She had the affirmative word, and now she wanted the negative one. “No.”
She got that one in one try, the structure simple enough, plus Pietro suspected that she was a very quick study. After a few more rounds of figuring out the usage of the words, she then holds up the coif, crinkled the links in her hand, and asked, “That is a?”
“That is mail,” Pietro answered.
Her ear very keen to his words, and Pietro speaking slowly anyway, she chattered something and then tacked ‘a’ on at the end, her voice obviously indicating that she wanted to know why he had not added the word ‘a’ into his sentence.
Pietro just shrugs and replied with normal speed, “It’s just the way the language is.”
Red furrowed her brow but seemed to get the gist of what he was saying. Shaking it off, she repeated, “That is mail.”
Frowning slightly, Pietro turns his left hand so that his palm is facing upwards and he said, “Coif.”
Frowning slightly, Red eventually hands the coif over, her eyes narrowed to see what he is getting at.
Pointing with his chin to the item in his hand, Pietro said, “This is a coif,” he then points at the hauberk, “That is a hauberk,” and then he points at both of them and finished, “These are mail.”
A light goes up in Red’s eyes as she then explores this new subtlety of the language. They went back and forth for several more minutes exploring the relationships between words and plurals. She very quickly figured out the 'is/are' relationship and 'that/this/these', but since mail was already a plural, pluralizing words took a bit longer.
Pointing to the hauberk and then holding up two fingers to indicate theoretical multiples, she asked, “These are hauberk.”
“These are hauberks,” Pietro corrected.
She then gabbled on for a bit before ending, “No these are mails.” Obviously she was annoyed that he had corrected her before over that rule. Fed up with the fine distinction there, Red tossed the mail aside for one of her servants to grab before pointing her finger in Pietro’s chest and asked, “This is a?”
Pietro furrowed his brow at that question. Did she want his name, his species, or what? Finally, he settled for saying, “I am Pietro Ludvigs.”
Raising a curious brow, Red said, “I am Pee-utro…”
Shaking his head, Pietro said, “No,” before using his left hand to point to himself and say “I,” before pointing at her and saying, “You.”
Red made what was probably her language’s equivalent of “Ah,” before beginning, “You am…”
“You are,” Pietro corrected.
Red looks at him funny before beginning again, “You are Pee-utro-”
“Pietro,” Pietro said slowly and louder for her to hear the syllables more clearly.
“Pi-utro,” She said.
“Pietro.”
“Pietro,” Pietro nodded. “You are Pietro Lewd-wigs…”
“Ludvigs,” Pietro said irately but he hid most of his annoyance. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t get his name right.
After a few more tries she finally managed to get out, “You are Pietro Ludvigs.”
Nodding, Pietro said, “Yes. You are?”
Red looked at him funny for a moment before it dawned on her that he was asking the same question of her. After a moment she replied, “I am Cherach.”
“You are Chair-ash,” Pietro attempted. The syllables were pronounced with an unusual speed and cadence.
Pietro was not expecting the slap across his face or the restrained giggles from the servants, who promptly shut up when they were on the receiving end of a truly royal glare. Apparently that was a distinct and different word.
Scowling angrily due to the pain, Pietro growled, “Come on! I didn’t get nearly so pissed when you screwed up my name!”
Pietro shut up when she turned that glare on him, but after a moment her look softened and she said a bit more slowly, “Cherach.”
Pietro pronounced the syllables as slowly and carefully as he could; making multiple tries to get them right before stringing them together. She looked ready to smack him again the first time he tried it all together, but she held back and let him try again until eventually he got it right.
“You are Cherach,” Pietro said. Cherach nodded and said, “Yes.”
She then launched into teaching him how to say that line in her language, and Pietro, despite his best efforts, could not get it quite right anywhere as fast as she had his language. Then again, the speed of saying something seemed to have an effect on exact pronunciation and thus meaning, the language using a lot of syllables that sounded rather close to Pietro’s ears.
Pitch also seemed to be important, and Pietro realized that the reason Cherach had been so excited to hear him was because his voice was considerably deeper than was probably normal around here, so he must have not only been speaking a strange language, but just the sound of his voice was exotic. Still, from what he gathered, in their language he probably sounded like an obscenity spewing retard with a speech impediment.
Still, considering the fact that he would almost certainly have to spend the rest of his life in their captivity it would be a good idea to at least try to learn the basics of their language.
They went on like that for what felt like hours, Pietro teaching Cherach words and then she telling him how to say the equivalent in her language. She learned a lot more than he did, partly because it seemed that his language was the easier of the two to learn, partly because she seemed more willing to give up and move on while he had to keep going until she was satisfied.
Eventually Cherach yawned mightily, and blinking away weary eyes, she gestured for the servants to take him away, or at least that was what Pietro interpreted from her gesture and his limited new vocabulary. As they untied him though, Cherach slipped out of her dress, letting it fall to the ground. Fortunately she was turned away from him at the time so she only exposed her, admittedly rather shapely if curiously coloured, backside to him.
Pietro hoped she just didn’t care about the fact that he was there.
He was shocked though that when he looked away one of the maids slapped him across the face and started jabbering at him angrily. Curious as to what was going on, Cherach turned to see what was happening, which of course caused Pietro to avert his eyes again.
This got him slapped again.
Cherach came over, obviously annoyed that her servant was roughing up her property, and a huge row broke out with the two of them gesticulating wildly and shouting at each other so fast Pietro had no idea what they were saying. Finally the maid pointed to Pietro, and Cherach noticed that he was looking firmly away from her. This really pissed her off.
Grabbing him by the chin, she jerked his face around to look at her. Pietro kept his gaze firmly locked upon her face and definitely not the perkiness of her nipples or the interesting contrast of colours across her smooth body or the little triangle of curly red hair between her…
Biology took over and Pietro really wished he had some pants.
Cherach glanced down at him and started laughing, joined in by the other maids, which of course did wonders for his confidence and soon the flashed mixture of abject fear and arousal faded, to his relief. Cherach and her maids then seemed to start cracking jokes at his expense before she basically shooed them all out.
Now covered in a cold sweat, Pietro let himself be marched out of the room and through the palace down deeper into the huge complex, into what he presumed was either the slave quarters or the dungeon. He was soon put into a small cell with bronze bars, all of his restraints undone, except thankfully for the sling his arm was in.
Sitting down on the bench, Pietro breathed out heavily, the relief at being out of the danger zone evident.
“Huh… while I never actually planned to be in here, I expected to see one of your kind even less, human,” a masculine, melodious voice said from across the hall.
Looking up in the gloom, Pietro saw an elf sitting in the cell opposite from him.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
Those gun nuts do not understand the meaning of "overkill," and will simply use weapon after weapon of mass destruction (WMD) until the monster is dead, or until they run out of weapons.
They have more WMD than there are monsters for us to fight. (More insanity here.)
So the elves have some knowledge of the creatures that Red is a member of?
Yes. Their territories are much closer, thus even though there is little contact elves and these creatures do come into contact. It's never particularly pleasant.
By the way, is it coincidence that humans, elves, and Red are humanoid with aesthetic similarities, or are they genetically related?
A little from Column A, a little from Column B. When I get to their creation stories it will become more clear. No idea when I will get there though.
EDIT: Actually, now that I think about it, would you guys prefer I just keep running with the present time for the moment? You essentially now know who Pietro is and why is was on a mountain top fighting elves, do you want to see the full journey for him to get there? I can always add in more detail later.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
Pietro looked at the elf in the cage across from him, the foul creature like the rest of its kin: worm pale skin stretched over obscenely angular muscles and joints, not a trace of fat or softness to its form. Its limbs were proportioned too long and thinly, its fingers long and with an extra joint that let its digits bend in disgusting ways. Its body was smooth and hairless except for at the top- something easily determined considering it was as naked as Pietro- where it had only shoulder length platinum blonde hair, its top knot apparently cut when it was captured. It had grotesquely large eyes set with unnaturally bright blue irises that held far too much contempt for anything currently held prisoner in a barred cell.
Pietro said nothing to the thing. He merely turned away while bowing his head in prayer.
“What, too tired to talk human?” The elf asked mockingly.
Pietro did not respond, continuing his quiet supplication to the Deathlord.
“Ha! Pathetic. Just like you weaklings to shut your eyes and try to ignore the world rather than admit that you have no strength of your own,” the elf spat out angrily.
Looking up, Pietro went over to the bars of the cell where he bit down on his thumb, drawing blood so. He then began painting the floor at the threshold of the cell with his blood, inscribing simple patterns until he had created a line spanning the doorway. Once done he stuck his thumb in his mouth to ease the bleed and to clean it off.
The elf just stared at him and then asked, “What do you think you just did human?”
Shrugging, Pietro said mockingly, “I don’t know. If you ever get out of your cage perhaps you should try stepping over that line to see what will happen.” He then lay down on the cot in his own cell.
The elf eyed the dark red lines warily before he hissed, “You think your corpse god can protect you here?”
“I know that the Deathlord is with me, and I know that he placed iron in the blood of his children. If you wish to challenge either of those statements I suggest you step over that line. Unless of course you feel that there is no Deathlord and would like to test the truth of the Iron Curse upon you demons,” Pietro replied, settling in as best he could.
“You disgust me,” the elf answered.
“The feeling is mutual. Tell me, how many humans have you killed?” Pietro asked.
“Your kind is mercifully rare in these parts, your disgusting faces kept well away from our lands, although once again you seem to come into places owned by superior beings as if mud wallowing filth like you had the right to foul our sight with your presence,” the elf replied contemptuously.
Snorting, Pietro said, “Which is to say none in a way that doesn’t make you look pathetic.”
The elf was on his feet and rattling the bars of his cell in fury, screaming, “I am a mighty warrior who has killed hundreds of lesser beings in the millennia of my existence!”
“So none,” Pietro said, his eyes still closed while he smirked.
“Such arrogance!” The elf roared.
“Huh… all I’m hearing right now is a whiny, mewling weakling who has never gone up against real warriors bragging about nothing at all. I mean, how else did you get done here?” Pietro asked cruelly.
The elf went very quiet for a moment before he said, “They ambushed me.”
“Oh, so where is your bragging about being a superior being now?” Pietro asked.
“The Herachnaman are far superior to you humans who hide behind your god and your iron rather than fight like true warriors,” the elf replied in disgust before he pointed out, “Besides, you were captured too.”
“I was tired after I spent my day killing elves and falling off mountains. I was asleep when they found me,” Pietro replied.
“Lies! A worm like you could not kill my kind!” The elf screamed out.
“That’s strange, aren’t elves supposed to be able to pluck lies from the air with that same ability that lets you speak any language?” Pietro asked sarcastically.
The elf went very, very quiet.
“I killed four elves by the way. First real fight too. No wonder your kind has lost every single war you have fought with us,” Pietro said insultingly.
The elf launched into a tirade of elvish, most of it quite probably obscene. Pietro broke him off and said, “Thanks for telling me what you call these guys, the Herachnaman was it? Have to see if they use it the way we use human or if it’s as insulting as ‘spider fucker’ sounds.”
The elf shut up and then hissed angrily, “You know elvish?”
“Who would want to learn such a disgusting, useless language? No, it is just that we humans keep very good records of the old days so that we might never forget why we should hate your kind. ‘Human’ is from old elvish ‘hue-main’ which roughly translates out as ‘corpse fucker’. We however picked up that insult and wore it like a badge of honour when we started slaughtering your kind and driving you back to the edges of the world,” Pietro explained.
“Just like a hue-main to admit the truth of their degenerate and disgusting ways,” the elf spat out.
“You know, that’s the thing I never got about you guys. You call us corpse fuckers when you’re the ones who won’t admit…” Pietro began before being cut off.
The elf was at the bars, arms clawing out, trying to get at him, screaming, “Don’t you dare talk about her!”
Pietro opened his eyes and looked at the frantic creature practically frothing at the mouth before he finished, “…that your goddess is dead.”
“Her Serenity Sulnavola, Creator of All that is Right and Pure is not dead!” The elf roared.
Looking at his hands, Pietro shrugged on his cot and said, “That’s strange, the sun seems to bless me more than a curse should.”
The elf practically wretched before he said, “You call that burnt and bubbled flesh of yours a blessing?”
“I don’t look like you which is a blessing enough for me. Oh, and what was the original curse supposed to be again? Something about turning to ash? Never quite got there before the Deathlord cut off her head, did she?”
“Lies and blasphemies from a disgusting creature,” the elf replied, clearly starting to sulk now.
“I must say though, her head makes a nice light. No wonder the Deathlord has it dragged across the sky every day. So warm, so comforting. I’m glad my god is active and alive in comparison to the headless corpse you masturbate over in denial of the truth. If it weren’t for the fact that we quite like the word these days, I would say that you elves are the hue-mains,” Pietro said.
The elf didn’t say a word.
“Good,” Pietro muttered before rolling over, his right arm shuffled about to be in a comfortable position without pressure on it.
It took a long while for Pietro to drift off to sleep, his brain too filled with thoughts from the day and instinctive fear of having an elf at his back, to say nothing of the fact that he had already slept too much lately. Still, eventually he drifted off, the numerous spikes of terror throughout the day, if it even was day down in this lightless abyss, having ultimately drained him.
The sun was upon his face, warm and kind, the head of a petty, incompetent goddess used to bless the children of the Deathlord instead of cursing them like it had in the primordial past. He was pausing to let the breeze blow over him, cooling his skin. The harvest could wait these brief seconds, and when he opened his eyes he would be refreshed and ready to continue stronger than before.
Pietro opened his eyes, but instead of finding the golden fields of wheat swaying gently in the breeze, he instead found a brown patch of desiccated earth from which only scraggly grey weeds clung. Gone was the warm, gentle sun, replaced by a blasting, withering glare that drained the moisture from everything it looked upon.
Gone too was Pietro’s linen clothes and the hefty wooden haft of his scythe, replaced instead by nakedness and a simple dried out stick that he was using to poke into the wasted soil.
He looked down at the hole he had been digging with his stick and the bit of mud that had gathered at the bottom. He reached down, sticking a pale hand into the mud and pulling up a clump of the mud, bringing it to his lips so that he could try to suck out as much of the moisture as possible.
“Would you like freedom from this suffering?” A quiet voice asked behind him.
Whirling about in terror of one of the masters, he instead only found a strange creature standing behind him. It was clad in heavy robes that shone and rippled in the brilliant light, its face concealed beneath the hood so that only twin points of red light gleamed from beneath the shadows.
His breath caught in his throat. What was this creature that stood before him?
“Would you like freedom from this suffering?” The figure asked again.
He licked his dry lips, his tongue providing no more moisture than before. What was this creature and what was it offering him?
“Freedom?” He asked nervously.
“Freedom. Freedom from the ravenous pit in your stomach, for how many years has it been since you last ate? Four? Five? Freedom from the infections upon your body that pain you so. Freedom from the creatures that steal what food and water you do find, that steal your children, and hunt you and your kin for sport. Freedom from all the pains that have made your too long life nothing but suffering,” the figure asked.
He looked back and forth, for surely this was a trick by one of the masters, trying to get him to speak out against the masters. Those that spoke out had their heads cut off and put on pikes while their bodies were hung up by the entrails just out of reach. So far no one had been lucky enough to be put back together.
Still, if this was one of the masters it would not do to act like he was unwilling to cooperate, so instead he said, “What would you have me do?”
The figure raised an arm, a reddened hand sticking out of the shining robes to reveal a small bit of reddish-brown clay, a small bit of ochre. The figure said, “Eat this.”
He sighed. The masters could be cruel and capricious at times, but it was best to just do as they said. Picking up the piece of ochre, he swallowed it whole, trying not a chew upon the foul tasting, inedible thing.
He immediately dropped to the ground, all of his pains doubling, tripling, and increasing nearly to the point of insanity. Pain had been part of his life since birth, but this was beyond anything he had ever experienced before. Oh what a cruel fate it was to not be one of the masters.
“Worm! What are you doing over there?” A voice called out. Turning to face this new presence, he found one of the masters, tall and proud sitting astride a nightmare, looking at him.
He was about to point to the figure when he noticed that there was nothing there.
“Worm! When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer!” The master said, dropping off his horse and carrying an obsidian skinning knife, the sort used for disciplining unruly beasts.
The master lashed out at him, but when the knife bit into his flesh there was a flash of agony unlike anything he had ever felt before and a spray of brilliant crimson that left both parties involved dumbstruck as to what had happened.
His left hand was lying on the ground, and he had no feeling in it. He tried to flex it, but it refused to respond, the limb no longer part of him. It was impossible, but now that the hand was separated, it was as if it had become as little more than a rock.
If his head was cut off would that end the pain in his body?
His right hand wrapped about his digging stick and he thrust out, catching the shocked master in the gut, a spray of milky white fluid accompanying the attack. The master screamed in agony, experiencing pain it never thought possible. It pulled the stick out, a torrent of fluid accompanying the action, and it tried to raise its knife again but it just doubled over and collapsed.
More of the bright red fluid was flowing out of him, and everything was going dark and numb, a peace settling over him that he had never felt before. The master was still moaning when everything went black.
Pietro jerked spastically, cold sweat covering his body. Sitting up in his cot, he shivered as the moisture evaporated off his bare skin, chilling him to his core. What a dream! He knew that dreams were the Little Death, sent by the Deathlord so that men would not fear True Death when the time came, but that was more intense than he had ever experienced before.
Glancing over at the elf in the other cell, Pietro wondered what had brought that one. It was remarkably like the story of the Unnamed, the First Man from the age before names, blessed by the Deathlord to be the first creature to have a soul and the gift of death, to be the first killer and the first killed. Perhaps sleeping in such close proximity to an elf had brought such a dream on, his memories summoning forth the First Story.
Or perhaps it had some deeper meaning.
Such things were outside of Pietro’s knowledge and understanding as a peasant. Even Father Mykola would have been hard pressed to answer such a question, and it would probably take a senior theologian to help him understand it, something in woefully short supply down in these lightless caves.
All Pietro could do was pray.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
Great, now I have what I think is a scene from Simpsons stuck in my head where Homer says, "Now that's religion!" Is this a real scene or am I just hallucinating?
Also, I really appreciate any feedback and questions you have, it helps me write better to talk to other people about what is going on, what you like, what you don't like, that sort of thing. And if you ever think you see a plot hole, or a what might be a plot hole developing, then please tell me so I can jump on that.
For example, the developing mythology, what all do you guys think of it exactly? I know I like to be an enigmatic cackling bastard at times, but seriously, if you want to know, I will tell you, you'll just be spoiled. Of course, if my ideas suck, you can tell me ahead of time so that I can make it better.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
Mythology in Dreams... Yes, I like. Please continue with the Present. We don't really need the past now
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Glad you enjoyed, and I hope you feel better soon Tevar.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
I'm very interested to know the meaning of Pietro's dream, and the relationship between humans and elves. The fact that their gods interact in their mythology suggests a VERY close relationship.
Those gun nuts do not understand the meaning of "overkill," and will simply use weapon after weapon of mass destruction (WMD) until the monster is dead, or until they run out of weapons.
They have more WMD than there are monsters for us to fight. (More insanity here.)
If you pay close attention to the colours used throughout the story and the insults traded between Pietro and the elf you will probably be able to construct a rough timeline of what happened between the two groups.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
Academia Nut wrote:
For example, the developing mythology, what all do you guys think of it exactly? I know I like to be an enigmatic cackling bastard at times, but seriously, if you want to know, I will tell you, you'll just be spoiled. Of course, if my ideas suck, you can tell me ahead of time so that I can make it better.
I like it the way it's going right now. Revealing mythology in a piecemeal fashion is more satisfying than big info-dumps.
The rain it falls on all alike
Upon the just and unjust fella'
But more upon the just one for
The Unjust hath the Just's Umbrella
Yeah, it's way more fun to reveal these things slowly. Plus its not like there is a lot of opportunities to just info dump it all. That would just be weird.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
And we learn about more about two cultures in this installment.
---
Chapter 7: Scars
The dream of the Unnamed kept Pietro up, after something that intense and profound, there was no way he was getting back to sleep. Fortunately the elf did not feel like chatting, so Pietro had a good hour or so to think and pray before one of the maids came to collect him. Somewhere along the line someone set a small plate of food down for him. Objectively it was rather atrocious, some sort of bread that was hard and flat and tasted slightly of spoilt eggs and a sort of thin soup, but he had not eaten anything in too long so he greedily devoured what was placed before him.
However, when she saw how grubby he looked after all that cold sweat, she immediately turned up her nose and went to go chat with one of the guards, who seemed more bored than anything. Apparently the ranting and screaming of the elf hours before had not been enough to warrant attention. Considering the fact that it was an elf, this seemed reasonable as otherwise the man would probably be running back and forth all the time.
As Pietro was tied up and led deeper into the cell block, the elf called mockingly, “Don’t open your mouth!”
The guard then led Pietro into a small room with a grate on the floor, tying him to a pair of pylons so that his arms and legs were stretched to the sides, although he was at least careful with the still healing right arm. Of course, that probably had less to do with courtesy and more to do with not damaging Cherach’s property. Still, Pietro had to look on the bright side as much as possible in this dark place or he would probably go insane.
Once secured, the guard then opened up a slat in the ceiling. At first nothing happened, but soon the rain of tiny bodies began. Somewhere up in the ceiling there was a truly massive colony of spiders, and they were beginning to fall upon Pietro.
His first instinct was to scream and struggle as the number of creatures crawling on him began to increase rapidly, but he remembered what the elf had said and realized that while mocking, it was good advice. If he opened his mouth he would inevitably get some of the things in his mouth, and so far they had yet to bite him.
A minute later and Pietro had to struggle to keep his mouth shut for a completely different reason. The spiders appeared to be scraping his skin, their front legs and mandibles scouring his skin of dirt, grime, sweat, oil, and parasites. The sensation of thousands of spiders scraping his skin however incongruously tickled. Oh, it also pricked and stung at times, but mostly it was like a combination of scratching and tickling, and Pietro really wanted to laugh in response.
Once they had a small ball of Pietro in their jaws, the spiders dropped away. Conspicuously unlike the ones from yesterday, they did not patch over his wounds and in fact took all the old webbing that had been applied as bandages with them, although since they did not open up any of the wounds it did not particularly matter.
After several minutes the spiders had finished their job, the last ones crawling out of his hair to drop down through the grate, leaving Pietro feeling all tingly. There were a few more minutes of silence before the gate to the spider den on top was closed and a new grate was opened, launching a sluice of water down a spout to strike Pietro full in the chest. It nearly knocked him off his feet, but fortunately he managed to take the force on his left arm, sparing the right one.
The water was surprisingly warm, even a touch on the hot side, but once he got over the shock of the moment, Pietro managed to stand up and face the onrushing tide solidly. The warm water kept pounding him, soaking every inch of his body. That continued for about a minute until the flow was cut off, leaving Pietro dripping and looking like a drowned rat. In the warm, dry air of this subterranean place, it only took a few minutes for him to be only mildly damp.
Once he had dried off a bit, the two maids came in to finish the clean up. Untying him, the led him to another room where they set him down on a stool. The guard accompanying them looked ready to tie him up again, but Pietro just gave a defeated look that indicated that he knew resistance was futile, and let them work on him without protest.
Thankfully they finally decided to give him something to wear, even if it was just a leather loincloth, although Pietro was embarrassed to need help to get it on as he only had one fully functional arm. Once he had that on, one of the maids got out a fishbone comb and went at his hair, which was of course a tangled mess after going for such a long time without proper care. Soon the maid and he were in an epic struggle as she tried undoing the tangles and straightening his naturally curly hair while Pietro tried to avoid having his scalp ripped off.
The other maid took out a pair of small scissors and an equally small file and took hold of Pietro’s left hand, having the foresight to realize that the combing would naturally cause him to struggle and jerk about and that trying to hold onto his broken right arm would get her chewed out by Cherach for damaging her property. While Pietro and the other maid traded insults, she quietly began to work on his nails.
Pietro let her, which was why he did not notice when she started examining his hand more carefully while ignoring his nails. When she grabbed his right hand to look at it in amazement, fortunately she did not exacerbate the arm but the sudden motion did cause Pietro to let out a sound somewhat reminiscent of the first part of the noise a horse kicked in the balls makes, only higher pitched.
The maid then started chattering away at the other maid and the guard, who took a close look at Pietro’s hands. Pietro also had a close look at his own hands to try and figure out what it was exactly that they were looking at. He then looked at their hands to try and figure out what it was that they were looking at.
It took looking at the male guard’s hands to figure it out.
They were looking at the scars in his palms and the back of his hands from where he had had long, thin nails driven through as part of his manhood initiation ceremony. While only he and Mykyta had performed the ritual with both nails, Gustavo and Edvin opting to only have it done to their non-dominant hand due to their professions, every man in Thrane, and every other human nation Pietro knew of, did it. To Pietro, the scars were like the sky being blue, it wasn’t a big deal, but then again to these people his scars probably were like the sky being blue, a huge deal.
Now all three of them were clearly agitated. Apparently the scars had some meaning to them that Pietro doubted would be good for him.
The rest of the grooming experience forgotten, they practically frog marched him out of the dungeons they were so eager to get where they wanted to go. Very quickly Pietro realized that they were headed for the Great Hall.
There was a grand table set up there, with the queen sitting at one end with Cherach to one side and various courtiers to the other. Very curiously to Pietro’s eyes the females in attendance outnumbered the males by two to one. Also, there was a plethora of iris colours, white with flecks being the most common, followed by yellow and blue. Curiously two females next to Cherach, who looked to be about the same age as her too, also had red irises. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that the other two were wearing clothing with different family crests Pietro would have guessed that they were all sisters.
Upon seeing the maids and the guards bringing Pietro in, all conversation halted, the queen turning her gaze upon the intrusion and obviously asking what the hell was going on. There was a scrabble of voices while the three servants tried to all talk at once before the guard finally just had Pietro hold up his hands, palm up.
Looking over it all, there was a chatter of excitement while the court babbled over this new find, Cherach clearly beaming now. Obviously whatever significance they saw in the scars had increased his worth once more in their eyes, which was probably not a good thing for his long term survival prospects.
Hopefully once Cherach had a better command of his language, or he of hers, he could straighten this all out in a manner that would not end with his head being cut off or something else equally unpleasant. Knowing these guys their preferred method of execution probably involved spiders somehow.
Cherach chattered excitedly with the queen for a time, before eventually the queen waved dismissively, Cherach and the other two girls next to her rising and going around the table, the long way so as to not walk behind the queen, and joining with the group, lead them away from the Great Hall and back to Cherach’s room.
Sitting Pietro down, Cherach looked at him and said slowly, “This is Verach. This is Lilcher.” She gestured to each of the other girls in turn.
Nodding, Pietro said slowly in their language, “Hello Verach. Hello Lilcher.”
Both seemed suitably amused, so presumably he did not mangle their names too badly.
Cherach then took Pietro’s hands, Pietro amazed by their softness and smoothness, caused by a lifetime of not having to work he supposed, and she seemed shocked by how rough and callused his hands were too before she looked at his scars and asked, “What this?”
“What are these?” Pietro automatically corrected. Cherach looked a little annoyed and Pietro realized that she did not want to be corrected in front of her friends, but she let it drop and repeated the question with correct grammar.
Frowning, Pietro looked about until he saw a decorative nail in Cherach’s bed. Pointing to it, he said, “Nail.”
Cherach looked at the bronze tack sceptically while looking at the puckered scars in his hand.
Still wincing, Pietro tried to come up with a way of describing what he meant. Finally he pointed to the nail again and held his hands a short distance apart and said, “Little nail,” before pointing to his hands and then holding them further apart, at about the requisite four thumb lengths used for the ceremonial nails, and said, “Big nail.”
The eyes of those in attendance went wide. Cherach then asked, “Why?”
Pietro chewed his bottom lip as he tried to think of how to explain this sort of thing. First he would have to explain the male/female words, something they had not covered yesterday. The trouble would of course be figuring out how to tell them without offending them. They seemed to think about the interactions between men and women very different, so he could very well blunder into a situation where things got unpleasant quick.
Eventually he pointed to the guard still in attendance and then to himself and said, “Male.” He then pointed to the girls and said, “Not male. Female.”
Cherach looked at him funny and then glanced over at the hauberk on display on a rack she had obviously had brought into her room while Pietro was away. She then asked, “Mail?”
Cursing his language’s proclivity to reuse words for completely different meanings, Pietro shakes his head and tries to come up with a new approach. Boy/girl wouldn’t really do it as the scars were from him transitioning from a boy to a man, so going with that tack would just cause confusion.
Unfortunately the other words, man/woman were derived from elvish swear words, and since these people had contact with elves there was a good chance they would know what they meant. Taking up insults and wearing them as a badge of pride was a good way of screwing with those handing out the insults, but it was also a great way to confuse third parties.
Finally he pointed to himself and the guard and said, “Man.”
All in attendance were taken aback, and Cherach just looked at him funny before she said, “Main?”
Yup, they definitely knew the elvish word.
Finally Cherach pointed at his crotch and asked, “Main?”
“Man… and uh… yes. Sort of. Right track,” Pietro said. Fortunately they had covered ‘sort of’ yesterday so Cherach would know what he was talking about.
“Why?” Cherach asked again.
Thinking for a moment, Pietro pointed to himself and said, “I little, I boy. I grow. I man. Nail hands show I am man,” while making the appropriate hand gestures in try and aid the explanation and fill in the words Cherach did not yet know.
It was only after Cherach gave him an absolutely gobsmacked expression that Pietro realized that there were other ways to interpret what he had just said and done with his hands, especially since he had just called himself a fucker in elvish.
Waving his hands in protest, Pietro said, “No! No, not like that! Not like that!”
It was too late though, for Cherach had begun chattering away in her own language, telling the others what he had just told her. Somehow he guessed that it got garbled even worse. The one that Pietro was pretty sure was named Lilcher actually started to reach out for his loin cloth. Pietro tried to wave her away, but fortunately Cherach slapped the hand away.
She then reached herself and lifted up the flap of leather, despite Pietro’s protest. She and everyone else in the room peered closely, causing Pietro to turn a bright shade of red in deep embarrassment.
Letting the loincloth fall away, Cherach and the other females just shrugged in confusion.
A sour look coming over his face, Pietro replied sarcastically, “Thanks.” At least they hadn’t laughed this time though.
After some discussion amongst them, Cherach began to ask a question, but it was obvious that neither of them had the vocabulary quite yet to communicate on that level and there were no physical examples to point to. Eventually by pantomiming a circlet about her head and a rounded belly Cherach managed to get across the idea of ‘Mother’.
“Mother?” Pietro asked, copying the pantomime to indicate he understood.
Cherach nodded; fairly confident that she had the word and concept right and then pantomimed what Pietro figured was a rocking motion. “Child? You child of your mother?” Pietro said pointing to Cherach and then miming the circlet action that indicated Cherach’s mother specifically.
Nodding, Cherach then asked, “How many child your mother?”
Pietro answered, “Seven… err… nine. Nine.” He almost forgot about the brother and sister than had died before the age of one and thus weren’t counted traditionally in Thrane.
There was an impressed whistle from one of the maids, who had picked up some of the language yesterday.
Cherach looked equally impressed before she asked, “Your not mother, your…” she then pointed at his crotch.
“Uh… man mother? Father? Yes, father,” Pietro said.
Figuring that she was on the right track, Cherach asked, “How many child your father?”
Pietro furrowed his brows in confusion before he answered, “Nine.”
Again Cherach was gobsmacked and she then tried to redefine the question, “How many child your father with your mother.”
“Nine,” Pietro replied, looking at her funny.
Cherach exploded into activity, shouting and ranting at the others who soon picked it up. This was obviously huge news to them, and Pietro had no idea why. The guard just looked at him in awe before he said, “You BIG man!”
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
I wonder if the Herachnaman take some of the cues of their gender interactions from the spiders that are everywhere in their culture. It's a sinister explanation for why there are so few men-folk.
I think you've managed to nicely capture the confusion and misunderstanding that 2 totally different cultures would have in trying to communicate important ideas. The rituals that humans undergo as part of their devotion to the death god are interesting too. Nice chapter.
The rain it falls on all alike
Upon the just and unjust fella'
But more upon the just one for
The Unjust hath the Just's Umbrella
So.. are they cruicified, or are the nails just driven into their hands to show they are adults and able to take the pain that Life will give them? And do women have their own rituals for coming of age?
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
I wonder if the Herachnaman take some of the cues of their gender interactions from the spiders that are everywhere in their culture. It's a sinister explanation for why there are so few men-folk.
Within the next two chapters there will be a bit more of an explanation, although its going to take a whole lot longer for the full one to come out due to communication complications.
So.. are they cruicified, or are the nails just driven into their hands to show they are adults and able to take the pain that Life will give them? And do women have their own rituals for coming of age?
Basically the way the ritual goes is that there is a board laid down on an altar and the guy places his hands on the board. The priest, and an assistant if both hands are being done, then drive the nails through the hand. The nails are ritually boiled beforehand, partly because it hurts more, partly because they noticed over hundreds and thousands of years of doing this that putting them in boiling water reduced the incidence of disease. The guys doing the hammering also have to have a lot of practice, either under supervision from a superior or work on corpses, so that they minimize damage to the hand. After the nails are driven through, because they don't have the widening at the top the guy undergoing the ritual basically has to pull his hands off the nails. That's one of the big reasons why using a single nail is acceptable, double nailing it is actually the rarer version as most people use their dominant hand to help pull the other one off the nail. Typically only people at the top of their classes (sucessful farmers trying to get into the middle class, rich merchants trying to get into the nobility, or militaristic royalty) who have something to prove AND don't need fine use of both hands for a few weeks AND can risk crippling injury to their hands will do this sort of thing.
And women definitely have different rituals, as evidenced by the fact that Pietro saw nothing unusual about the fact that the maids had no scars on their hands. I haven't worked out yet what their rituals are, although they probably involve less mutilation than the rituals for the men.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
This is an awesome story. You are very adept at creating mythologies and backgrounds, and even better at showing the reader a whole other world will excellent perspective and pacing.
I'm waiting to see what significance scars have in Cherach's culture.
By the way, are the Herachnaman capable of changing genders, like certain dinosaurs in 'Jurassic Park'? I'm curious why they were so surprised to learn how many siblings Pietro had.
Those gun nuts do not understand the meaning of "overkill," and will simply use weapon after weapon of mass destruction (WMD) until the monster is dead, or until they run out of weapons.
They have more WMD than there are monsters for us to fight. (More insanity here.)
Another chapter that could be a continuation of the last one. Ah well, I'm just trying to hammer out nice five page chapters so that I can keep a steady pace.
---
Chapter 8: Communication
Surprisingly after all the commotion caused by what Pietro assumed was some sort of massive miscommunication, Cherach shooed away the maids and her guests, although to a certain extent Pietro was glad of that as the other females had started literally drooling, the hungry look in their eyes terrifying him. They looked half crazed and ready to jump him; shifting about in ways that made Pietro felt uncomfortable with. The guard however was allowed to stay.
Just a day ago Pietro would have assumed that the man was there to defend the princess’ honour, but somehow he doubted that as the guard seemed to settle in on the other side of the room, an intent look on his face. He looked like he wanted to listen to this conversation… or watch.
For a time the look on Cherach’s face made Pietro think that she was going to attack him, but she seemed to shake it off, a spark in her eyes indicating that she was intentionally suppressing what she wanted now in exchange for something bigger later. She clearly had some trouble with it, probably accustomed to having her impulses fulfilled fairly quickly as royalty, but there was something more important.
Cherach just sat in front of Pietro for several minutes, staring at him, before she finally asked, “You has child?”
“No. I do not have children or a child,” Pietro said firmly.
“You… you… what word for something from not something?” Cherach asked while piling her hands on top of one another.
“Something from not something?” Pietro mused before he suggested, “Make? Do I make child?”
“Yes. Maybe? Make child have…” Cherach then proceeded to thrust her hips forward in a display that Pietro would have considered vulgar for a farmer’s daughter, let alone from a princess.
Pietro’s mouth was hung open for a few seconds before he said, “Yes, make children like that, we call sex.”
“You have sex?” Cherach asked.
Pietro shifted uncomfortably. This wasn’t really something he wanted to discuss but he really had no choice in the manner, now did he? He considered lying, but then again there wasn’t really any advantage to that.
“Yes, I have had sex. Once or twice,” Pietro said, perhaps understating things slightly. Sex amongst the unmarried was discouraged as it led to problems over taking care of any children inspired by the union. Still, there had been a few forays with a pretty young milkmaid a few years ago before she got married to someone else, and a few occasions with Marta in between discussions of the future. They were farmers, life was boring a lot of the time, pre-marital sex was somewhat expected.
Cherach looked at Pietro funny before she asked, “No children?”
“No, no children,” Pietro said.
“Why no make children?” Cherach asked curiously.
Pietro was getting rather uncomfortable, but he just shrugged uneasily and said, “Not… not want make child, just want fun.” The last word was new, but he hoped that the context would provide meaning.
It was almost imperceptible, but Pietro could swear that Cherach was very slowly humping the chair she was sitting in, but he would never dare suggest such a thing to here and insult her honour or dignity with such a crass suggestion. Still, he could not deny his eyes.
“Fun? You have fun sex, not child make sex?” Cherach asked, practically quivering with anticipation.
“Yes. Not have sex for making child, have sex, because… because… because it fun,” Pietro tried to explain before just giving up with a shrug. He really hoped that there was just some sort of colossal language barrier in the way here and he was missing out of some strange subtlety.
“Fun… fun…” Cherach said, and Pietro had the sudden dread that she had radically misinterpreted the word, but he had no way to explain how she got it wrong. “You… you…” Cherach tried to say something before pausing to think about how to say it. Eventually she had to launch into a side tangent to try and figure out some temporal relation words along with some tense grammar.
Finally she seemed satisfied and asked, “You ever try to make child?”
Shaking his head, Pietro said, “No, never try to make child. Not ready.”
“Not ready?” Cherach asked, suddenly intensely curious, the tension from before diverted by some sort of unexpected new development.
Shaking his head, Pietro replied, “No, not ready. First have to go on journey.” He then used his fingers to pantomime someone walking.
“Journey?” Cherach asked.
Mulling it over for a long time, Pietro finally hit upon how he wanted to get the idea across. Gesturing all about him, he said, “This is your home.”
“Home,” Cherach said, looking all about here.
“Your home is close. We are in your home. Follow?” Pietro asked.
Nodding, Cherach said, “Yes, I think so. This is my home.”
“My home is not close. My home is far. I leave my home, go on journey, go far from my home, and I now I in your home,” Pietro explained.
“Ah, journey! Yes, I think I see,” Cherach said with a nod before she frowned and asked, “Why you have journey?”
Pietro chewed on his lower lip, trying to think what to say. While he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea, he also didn’t want to sound quite as mercenary as he his job as caravan guard would seem to her. Eventually he said, “Have problem at home, go on journey to fix problem, make problem not problem.”
After saying it, Pietro mentally kicked himself, realizing that it sounded grander than it really was so he amended, “Not big problem, just problem I could not fix at home.”
“You have problem, so you go on journey that make you far from home. You want not far from home?” Cherach asked.
Pietro closed his eyes for a second before he said, “End of journey close to home, but I no leave you. No leave you.” He had no idea where he was, trying to run would just get him killed and he didn’t want to sound like he wanted to run away. Perhaps when there was a great grasp of language he could express his desire to be free and go home, but right now he was in enough trouble as it was without making them suspicious of him bolting.
Cherach looked at him suspiciously for a second before she asked, “What you do when home?”
“I… I… tell word,” Pietro said, realizing that they still had not worked out the concept of ‘new’ between them yet. Wracking his brain for the words they had shared, he finally said, “Mother has no child, not mother, follow?”
Cherach nodded.
“Mother has one child, mother. New mother. Mother has two children, still mother but not new mother,” Pietro said. He then put his left hand close to the ground and said, “Child little, child new. Child grow, child not new. Child grow big, not child.” He then pointed to the hauberk on display, “Hauberk iron, not hauberk. Iron made into hauberk, hauberk new, then hauberk not new later. Follow?”
It took a little while for Cherach to run that all in her head, but she seemed to understand that new was an idea about the passage of time. Finally she asked, “So when thing go from not thing to thing it new but later it not new?”
“Yes. ‘New’ is new word for you,” Pietro said.
Nodding, Cherach looked at him expectantly to explain what he needed ‘new’ for.
“When home, I make new home. Make not mother into new mother. Make new children. I become father. Follow?” Pietro tried to explain.
The light went on in Cherach’s head and she said, “Ah! Yes, I see. Pietro have problem. Problem not make new home?”
Pietro nodded, astonished as always how quick witted Cherach could be. “Yes, need to go on journey to make new home.”
Cherach then glanced over at the guard, who was still watching and listening intently, and asked, “You… like him? You…” she then pantomimed what looked to Pietro like she was either trying to milk a sideways cow, hammer something, or very possibly swing a sword. The guard had the decency to look embarrassed for the both of them.
“I fight?” Pietro asked, pantomiming a sword swing more realistically.
“Yes! Yes. You fight, you like him, you a… new word?” Cherach asked.
“Guard?” Pietro supplied.
“Guard… guard… guard fight?” Cherach asked, again swinging an imaginary sword.
Nodding, Pietro said, “Yes, guard fight. Not like fight, but guard fight. I new guard.”
“New guard? But you fight?” Cherach then pointed at his arm.
Nodding, Pietro said, “Yes, I fight. Fight elves,” Pietro then made a disgusted face at the mention of the bastards. Fortunately the word was common between their languages; unsurprising considering it came from a third language, as Cherach seemed to know what the word elf meant without further explanation.
“Fight elves? How many you fight?” Cherach asked with interest.
“Many. I fight many elves. I killed four elves,” Pietro said, pantomiming slitting his neck and letting his head loll back to get the meaning of killed across.
“Four?” Cherach asked in wonder, the guard obviously having picked up enough vocabulary to understand.
Shrugging, Pietro said, “Luck. All luck, I…” He then stumbled as he realized that he had no idea how to explain the concept of luck with the current level of shared vocabulary. Opening his mouth a few times, he finally waved his hands in negation and said, “Uh… many new words before ‘luck’. I, but not me, killed elves. Many new words before ‘luck’.”
Cherach frowned, obviously not really understanding him. Eventually she said, “You killed four elves, but it not you, it luck. You have big luck as guard.”
“Yes, I had much luck,” Pietro said, but he had the feel there was still mutual incomprehension about what was being talked about.
“Your father had much luck, make nine children with mother,” Cherach continued.
“Yes, he was quite lucky to have that many,” Pietro said.
“Your father lucky man. You lucky man. Nails through hands make you man,” Cherach continued.
“Uh… yes,” Pietro said, not quite sure where this was all going.
“You lucky man, but have problem at home. You guard, go on journey, fix problem so you can make new home when you go home,” Cherach kept going.
“Yes…” Pietro said.
“My father lucky guard too,” Cherach said. “He had big home and he big, lucky guard. He had nails through hands too; make him big, lucky man, big lucky guard, like it makes you big, lucky guard.”
Pietro blinked once.
Pietro blinked twice.
Pietro asked softly and quietly in shock, “What?”
“My father was like you. He had nails through hands. He was lucky guard with big home. My mother liked. She made child with him, make me. Verach and Lilcher mothers also make child with him,” Cherach explained.
Slapping his chest, Pietro demanded, “Like me? Like…”
“Same sort of hair, same sort of skin, same nails through hands. He big man too; big, lucky guard with big home too, like you,” Cherach said.
“Where is he?” Pietro asked frantically.
“My mother killed him,” Cherach said.
---
Dun dun duuuuun.
Also, for fun, when Cherach is talking in the end, start making word substitutions for the words she learned this chapter.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen. You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
