Post by Stranger on Jan 24, 2011 7:25:35 GMT -8
The day was warm - or warm for the time of year at least, and H'tio found, clearing a brier of loose bushes with his sickle, that he actually liked what he did. Gardening was not something that came naturally to the former healer apprentice; he was better with books and binding wounds, more graceful with his scalpels and bandages. In fact...he couldn't recall when he had last done gardening of any sort (since helping pluck flowers for your mother or sister probably didn't count). But he liked to think he was making progress with straightening the branched-out tangles now - even if his hands were scratched and bleeding a little.
He had been working at the assigned chore for about an hour, with a mound of cut branches piled up behind him to show for it. The bushes, unruly leftovers from last autumn, were overgrowing the neat rows they had been set in and were intruding on the vegetable patches. Winter had put a halt to their spread for now, but come spring they would be at it again, overrunning this entire side of the garden eventually if left to their own devices. Which was why, though winter was usually a quiet month for the winglets assigned to the garden, he now found himself swinging the sickle, getting down on hands and knees at times, and just generally getting patched with random soil bits and melted snow. And finding, with every minute, that he was enjoying himself more than he had enjoyed plucking flowers for his mother.
Thoughts of his family sobered him, cast a gray pall over his mood. There was a stack of unopened letters on his bed by now, some plain and some marked with the seals of his family or his old mentors in the medical profession. He had written to his parents about three or four days after his Impression to tell them about it; he had not had the heart to draft that letter any earlier. Nor had he had the inclination to write to his old teachers; judging by the letters on his bed, his parents had probably done that for him already. Even without opening those letters, he could just imagine what they might say. Dear H'tio, we are sorry to hear....
He sighed, drew back the sickle, and kept working.
Ourobeph, never far from his Bonded, snuffled through the bare skeletons of plants and assorted saplings. His Bonded was having one of those melancholy moods again, but didn't mean he had to follow suit. Let H'tio mope - Ourobeph could be happy enough for both of them, and surely he'd be happy again when he saw what Ourobeph had collected! He paused again in mid-stride to examine the drips of ice that had frozen into beads of white and silver on some branches. They were pretty, so pretty he would have like to tear entire branches off for his collection; but H'tio had impressed on him what happened when snow melted, and he certainly didn't want to cause that. And anyhow, he wasn't supposed to knock down the plants - that was common courtesy, or Niataph and Esmareph might get angry and he didn't want that either. But that didn't mean these pretty bead-ice branches weren't his, wherever they were - he would make made sure of that. Shuffling along the base of the best-looking branches, he scraped little talon scratches three times across the hardened ground, creating furrows. There - that would show they were his!
And that nice round pebble at the corner of some tree roots was his too, it was such a nice-rounded-gray-colour-thing. He picked it up in his beak, trotted proudly to where H'tio had dropped his haversack and knocked it into place beside the soft-cloth backpack - alongside about three other pebbles and an old moulted feather, faded green but still a nice hue and shade. He stood for a moment, tail curling around his back legs as he surveyed his prizes; oooh, they were so pretty, especially that feather! If only he could find more of them...
Energized by the thought he set out again, scampering over a mound of fresh-piled snow beside the general aisles of the vegetable patch and trundling off towards the opposite end of the garden with his eyes on the ground. So intent was he that he saw nothing else, turning aside less worthy pebbles as he went...
Until he abruptly caught sight of something large and brown to one side.
Surprised at the sudden proximity of the unknown thing, he whirled with stubby wings flared and hindquarters braced into the crouch instinctive to his kind - ready to run or fight at an instant's notice. But it was big - so big he looked up, and up, and would eventually have seen the tawny simourv's head if he had not spotted the lines of her wingfeathers first. He knew these feather forms straight-off however, and chirruped a happy greeting. It was just another simourv from the Eyrie, no danger here!
Dimly he was aware that H'tio had caught his intial tinge of alarm, had dropped his sickle and was hurrying over; but at that moment he had eyes only for those lovely, mottled brown feathers. They were so pretty. Would it be rude to take one? He considered. Yes it would be, and H'tio was always so strict about not being rude. So...he would ask first.
Hello, he said up at Eoreph, his mint-green eyes shining, Your wing feathers are so pretty. Could I have one please?
He had been working at the assigned chore for about an hour, with a mound of cut branches piled up behind him to show for it. The bushes, unruly leftovers from last autumn, were overgrowing the neat rows they had been set in and were intruding on the vegetable patches. Winter had put a halt to their spread for now, but come spring they would be at it again, overrunning this entire side of the garden eventually if left to their own devices. Which was why, though winter was usually a quiet month for the winglets assigned to the garden, he now found himself swinging the sickle, getting down on hands and knees at times, and just generally getting patched with random soil bits and melted snow. And finding, with every minute, that he was enjoying himself more than he had enjoyed plucking flowers for his mother.
Thoughts of his family sobered him, cast a gray pall over his mood. There was a stack of unopened letters on his bed by now, some plain and some marked with the seals of his family or his old mentors in the medical profession. He had written to his parents about three or four days after his Impression to tell them about it; he had not had the heart to draft that letter any earlier. Nor had he had the inclination to write to his old teachers; judging by the letters on his bed, his parents had probably done that for him already. Even without opening those letters, he could just imagine what they might say. Dear H'tio, we are sorry to hear....
He sighed, drew back the sickle, and kept working.
Ourobeph, never far from his Bonded, snuffled through the bare skeletons of plants and assorted saplings. His Bonded was having one of those melancholy moods again, but didn't mean he had to follow suit. Let H'tio mope - Ourobeph could be happy enough for both of them, and surely he'd be happy again when he saw what Ourobeph had collected! He paused again in mid-stride to examine the drips of ice that had frozen into beads of white and silver on some branches. They were pretty, so pretty he would have like to tear entire branches off for his collection; but H'tio had impressed on him what happened when snow melted, and he certainly didn't want to cause that. And anyhow, he wasn't supposed to knock down the plants - that was common courtesy, or Niataph and Esmareph might get angry and he didn't want that either. But that didn't mean these pretty bead-ice branches weren't his, wherever they were - he would make made sure of that. Shuffling along the base of the best-looking branches, he scraped little talon scratches three times across the hardened ground, creating furrows. There - that would show they were his!
And that nice round pebble at the corner of some tree roots was his too, it was such a nice-rounded-gray-colour-thing. He picked it up in his beak, trotted proudly to where H'tio had dropped his haversack and knocked it into place beside the soft-cloth backpack - alongside about three other pebbles and an old moulted feather, faded green but still a nice hue and shade. He stood for a moment, tail curling around his back legs as he surveyed his prizes; oooh, they were so pretty, especially that feather! If only he could find more of them...
Energized by the thought he set out again, scampering over a mound of fresh-piled snow beside the general aisles of the vegetable patch and trundling off towards the opposite end of the garden with his eyes on the ground. So intent was he that he saw nothing else, turning aside less worthy pebbles as he went...
Until he abruptly caught sight of something large and brown to one side.
Surprised at the sudden proximity of the unknown thing, he whirled with stubby wings flared and hindquarters braced into the crouch instinctive to his kind - ready to run or fight at an instant's notice. But it was big - so big he looked up, and up, and would eventually have seen the tawny simourv's head if he had not spotted the lines of her wingfeathers first. He knew these feather forms straight-off however, and chirruped a happy greeting. It was just another simourv from the Eyrie, no danger here!
Dimly he was aware that H'tio had caught his intial tinge of alarm, had dropped his sickle and was hurrying over; but at that moment he had eyes only for those lovely, mottled brown feathers. They were so pretty. Would it be rude to take one? He considered. Yes it would be, and H'tio was always so strict about not being rude. So...he would ask first.
Hello, he said up at Eoreph, his mint-green eyes shining, Your wing feathers are so pretty. Could I have one please?
