02-27-2017, 01:58 AM
It takes an uncomfortably long time to get anywhere.
The road meanders downward across rolling hills and gentle slopes, cutting between fields and small, forested glens. I pass pastures full of fluffy hoofed beasts, and I don't roast them where they stand. I pass shepherds (such specific words for these menial jobs) and the stone-built cottages where they live, and I don't bring their little worlds crashing down around them.
Several times I stop, perching on stone fences amid the liquid mid-morning light. I observe the people going about their routines, making a game of trying to figure out what they're doing, and why, before continuing on my way. Eventually I call out to one of them, demanding an explanation, but he turns away, kneeling and pawing at a sheep, pretending not to hear.
Unforgiveable. I've chosen to let him live for even a short while longer, and this insignificant laborer ignores me!
I leap from my perch, landing heavily in the sod beyond. The sound agitates the livestock, but the man doesn't seem to notice, remaining on his knees and continuing to do whatever it is he's doing while I make my approach.
"I asked you a question, human," I rumble, standing at his back. His clothes are drab and simple, his hair is long and gray, and he holds a staff in his hand. There's a leather bag open on the ground beside him.
(When was it that I acquired the word for these creatures? And when, for that matter, did I learn about gender? It seems the knot of new knowledge that came with my diminished form continues to unfold, linguistic definitions leading to broader associations and ideas.)
The subject of the shepherd's arcane ministrations, already unnerved by my approach, flees at the sound of my voice. It runs off across the green making the most irritating sounds, frightening its fellows. I'm on the verge of destroying them just to make them be quiet when the man stands, rising slowly as he leans on his staff for support, and turns to face me. He has to look up to do it. His eyes are barely at the level of my lustrous chest.
At first he looks angry, but then a wave of mild surprise passes over his tanned, wizened face. He's silent for a moment, and I recognize the look in his clear brown eyes of a creature deciding whether or not to run. I can smell the fear on him as just an inkling of what he's dealing with infiltrates his brain - but then he speaks, his voice possessing surprising strength.
"I do beg yer pardon, uhm... sir. Mi'lord?" He watches my reaction, and seems to find it favorable. "Mi'lord. Sitting over there in the sun, I couldn't tell how big ye were. With those long pointed ears I thought ye must be an elf."
He spits on the ground. I look at the glob of as saliva for a moment, congealing amid the short, rich grass, and then back at the shepherd.
"You thought," I drawl, not recognizing his last word and confused by his sudden expectoration, "I was an elf. What is an elf?"
He looks at me strangely. "Ye're not from around here, are ye. Are ye a Prime?"
His question gives me pause. The fools I killed when I first arrived here spoke of Primes and Secondaries, but I paid them no attention. Brock Coxley called me a Prime, and Dawnika Snow mentioned it as well, claiming that being 'Primes' meant we were almost related (an assertion so ridiculous that I dismissed it out of hand.)
The shepherd sees my uncertainty.
"Were ye brought here by Omni? Can ye use Omnilium? Then ye're a Prime, mi'lord, and have no use for the likes o' me, and no further call on my time."
I grin. This is useful information. Seeing my teeth, the man's face falls.
"I was," I declare, "and I can, so I suppose I am. But you're wrong about not being any use to me. What is your name, shepherd?"
His eyes dart from me to a stone cottage, presumably his home, sitting pristine and secure upon the turf some hundreds of meters distant. I can see him wondering how fast I am.
"Luke Darby, sir. But I'm afraid I don't understand - ye're welcome to whatever I've got, but if ye're a Prime then ye can have practically anything ye want just by wishin' real hard. I get by tending my flock, and the wife sells cheese, but I'm a Secondary, and not a rich man. What possible help could I be?"
I'm derailed by the idea of a 'wife', which is even more bizarre than the idea of a farmer, but I push through it and I make my demand.
"I want you to tell me about yourself - anything you can think of. I want to know what you desire, Luke Darby. I want to know your dreams, and how you spend your days."
He stares at me. I stare back.
"Ye're serious," he says.
"Deadly serious." I hiss.
Luke Darby freezes for a moment as though turned to stone, a statue on the green - then nods once: decisive.
"Alright. If that's the way it's going to be. But I've got work to do, mi'lord, so if ye're gonna stick around and listen to me talk then ye're gonna have to follow me while I do it."
My anger flares. I very nearly incinerate him where he stands! This is not a negotiation!
... although.
It does occur to me that observing Luke Darby directly while he goes about his work, rather than merely hearing about it, will produce a more nuanced understanding of how a shepherd lives.
I cross my rippling, radiant arms over my chest, and glare imperiously down.
"Very well."
The road meanders downward across rolling hills and gentle slopes, cutting between fields and small, forested glens. I pass pastures full of fluffy hoofed beasts, and I don't roast them where they stand. I pass shepherds (such specific words for these menial jobs) and the stone-built cottages where they live, and I don't bring their little worlds crashing down around them.
Several times I stop, perching on stone fences amid the liquid mid-morning light. I observe the people going about their routines, making a game of trying to figure out what they're doing, and why, before continuing on my way. Eventually I call out to one of them, demanding an explanation, but he turns away, kneeling and pawing at a sheep, pretending not to hear.
Unforgiveable. I've chosen to let him live for even a short while longer, and this insignificant laborer ignores me!
I leap from my perch, landing heavily in the sod beyond. The sound agitates the livestock, but the man doesn't seem to notice, remaining on his knees and continuing to do whatever it is he's doing while I make my approach.
"I asked you a question, human," I rumble, standing at his back. His clothes are drab and simple, his hair is long and gray, and he holds a staff in his hand. There's a leather bag open on the ground beside him.
(When was it that I acquired the word for these creatures? And when, for that matter, did I learn about gender? It seems the knot of new knowledge that came with my diminished form continues to unfold, linguistic definitions leading to broader associations and ideas.)
The subject of the shepherd's arcane ministrations, already unnerved by my approach, flees at the sound of my voice. It runs off across the green making the most irritating sounds, frightening its fellows. I'm on the verge of destroying them just to make them be quiet when the man stands, rising slowly as he leans on his staff for support, and turns to face me. He has to look up to do it. His eyes are barely at the level of my lustrous chest.
At first he looks angry, but then a wave of mild surprise passes over his tanned, wizened face. He's silent for a moment, and I recognize the look in his clear brown eyes of a creature deciding whether or not to run. I can smell the fear on him as just an inkling of what he's dealing with infiltrates his brain - but then he speaks, his voice possessing surprising strength.
"I do beg yer pardon, uhm... sir. Mi'lord?" He watches my reaction, and seems to find it favorable. "Mi'lord. Sitting over there in the sun, I couldn't tell how big ye were. With those long pointed ears I thought ye must be an elf."
He spits on the ground. I look at the glob of as saliva for a moment, congealing amid the short, rich grass, and then back at the shepherd.
"You thought," I drawl, not recognizing his last word and confused by his sudden expectoration, "I was an elf. What is an elf?"
He looks at me strangely. "Ye're not from around here, are ye. Are ye a Prime?"
His question gives me pause. The fools I killed when I first arrived here spoke of Primes and Secondaries, but I paid them no attention. Brock Coxley called me a Prime, and Dawnika Snow mentioned it as well, claiming that being 'Primes' meant we were almost related (an assertion so ridiculous that I dismissed it out of hand.)
The shepherd sees my uncertainty.
"Were ye brought here by Omni? Can ye use Omnilium? Then ye're a Prime, mi'lord, and have no use for the likes o' me, and no further call on my time."
I grin. This is useful information. Seeing my teeth, the man's face falls.
"I was," I declare, "and I can, so I suppose I am. But you're wrong about not being any use to me. What is your name, shepherd?"
His eyes dart from me to a stone cottage, presumably his home, sitting pristine and secure upon the turf some hundreds of meters distant. I can see him wondering how fast I am.
"Luke Darby, sir. But I'm afraid I don't understand - ye're welcome to whatever I've got, but if ye're a Prime then ye can have practically anything ye want just by wishin' real hard. I get by tending my flock, and the wife sells cheese, but I'm a Secondary, and not a rich man. What possible help could I be?"
I'm derailed by the idea of a 'wife', which is even more bizarre than the idea of a farmer, but I push through it and I make my demand.
"I want you to tell me about yourself - anything you can think of. I want to know what you desire, Luke Darby. I want to know your dreams, and how you spend your days."
He stares at me. I stare back.
"Ye're serious," he says.
"Deadly serious." I hiss.
Luke Darby freezes for a moment as though turned to stone, a statue on the green - then nods once: decisive.
"Alright. If that's the way it's going to be. But I've got work to do, mi'lord, so if ye're gonna stick around and listen to me talk then ye're gonna have to follow me while I do it."
My anger flares. I very nearly incinerate him where he stands! This is not a negotiation!
... although.
It does occur to me that observing Luke Darby directly while he goes about his work, rather than merely hearing about it, will produce a more nuanced understanding of how a shepherd lives.
I cross my rippling, radiant arms over my chest, and glare imperiously down.
"Very well."