001 | i've got bruises with their fingerprints

[cannily]

WHO: Cael Lupei
WHERE: South Village - Inn roof, Schoolhouse Library, Jailhouse and animal pens, the Spring
WHEN: Early and Mid October
OPEN TO: All (See headers for limits)
WARNINGS: As always for Cael, his history involves death, arson, and human sacrifice. Please put thread warnings in comment titles.

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FIDDLER ON THE ROOF

open to two

Appearances and disappearances; copies of copies of copies, with all the memories and all of the little marks of a life lived in the right place. Cael has always wanted information, always wanted stories--and that hasn't changed. But it's an odd thing to puzzle over, into the late hours. It's an odd thing to wonder: as a copy of himself, with no delivered purpose, set loose in a place where no one knows him and none of his old life seems to apply, does he diverge at that point? Is he the same person, with his audience gone, with his revenge had, and swept so far from home by the uncaring sea?

He is the same person enough to do the same things, if not for the same reasons. Music used to be a tool, a way to perform magic, a way to ingratiate himself to a crowd. Now there's just the joy of it. Just the itch of his fingers and the fear of going out of practice.

In the early morning, just after breakfast, he wears down a piece of bees wax on the strings and wooden frames of his instruments, preparing them against wear and the deepening cold. On plenty of afternoons, when the sun shines strong enough to keep him warm, he climbs from his room onto the roof of the Inn, one instrument pulled to his back while he tunes and plays the other. A pity no one's come forward with the skill to accompany on the spare, but plenty have offered new music to learn.

As the afternoon wanes, the odd pull and drone of his wheel fiddle shifts from tunes that might seem familiar but unknown, to something more and more recognizable with practice. They're strange tunes, requiring shorter turns of the wheel, harder stops, but a good way to keep his fingers nimble and improvising across strings and keys.

FOR YOUR REFERENCE

open to two

When music isn't enough to keep his mind off his own past or future, he returns to the books and boards. The schoolhouse has proven full of guides, and he can often be found there with tea and a candle enclosed in a jar or kitchen glass, what he's copied from the Inn's records laid out on a desk while he searches for corresponding reference.

And, next to that pile, references for his references.

It's slow going, trying to match events to the alchemical and natural magic that seems to rule this land, but he tries for a page each day. An event, it's solution. Some of the books gain notes in their margins, references to rituals and magic from home, a lens of his own understanding for when he picks up the book again.

At home he'd conceal his notes, his efforts, but paper seems in short supply, and the privacy his mind prefers seems frowned upon. So he leaves it as open as the records in the odd little tavern beneath his room: books strewn, notes visible, his small, neat handwriting working its way through events and corresponding supplies and jobs to combat reoccurence.

If he can contribute nothing but his quick and far reaching memory, at least he'll have made the effort.

FORM VERSUS FUNCTION

open to two per location

There are a few books he brings with him from the schoolhouse, applicable as they are. Those afforded horses in Glasdant certainly didn't learn from books, and while he hadn't seen many in his lifetime, they certainly hadn't had antlers and such skittish temperament.

For now, he isn't trying to ride the Kirin Peter had helped him rescue from Owen's wire-strung homestead. Books on horses, books on wildlife: he does his best to cross reference the diets of horses and deer, and offer them what they'll eat from the middle circle. The pack of brushes and leather tack hadn't offered any instruction, but he finds it in the library--grooming, the importance of diet and hooves, a love of sweets and salt.

Within the weeks, Brindle and Oughts are getting back to their old shine and then some. Owen hadn't seemed to care for their looks: labeled blankets tossed over against the chill of sundown, a long lead to give them the walk of some grass. From what Cael has learned, he often as not took them back to their home on the plains, and perhaps he'll get there eventually.

For now, he can be found at the communal pens, taking them out of the jailhouse on their leads and tying them to the fence for general care. He brushes their coats, braids their manes and tails, pays what attention he can to their scales. And he talks to them, about everything and nothing. Whispered bits of gossip about the strange people at the Inn, hummed snatches of songs he's trying to learn. If they get used to him, maybe they'll stop kicking him so hard when he flubs the hoof picking.

For those who don't catch him brushing down his new charges and being kicked into the grass, he ends his work with them at the Spring, letting them pass by their home and lick moss from the stones while he soaks his bruises away. He hasn't quite been able to see it well enough to confirm, but from what he's read, it might one day erase his scars as well, and it's easier to relax with skittish animals to spook at an approach.

Comments

[cannily]

"So said all the books I pulled on the subject," Cael agrees, lip tucking in the smile he'd learned for things only he finds amusing. It happens more often in the village than it did at home, but for a very different reason: his experiences seem so outside the rest that he's left with only himself as an audience.

It isn't a smile that lasts, discussing the injury. Putting down animals always sounds too much like--like Hanzi, injured in the war and told his remaining duty would be to die for his district. His father hadn't been half so helpless as they thought.

"It had been raining," he explains, hands a little quicker, a little harsher on his laces. "The stakes pulled loose before that point. Their old owner hadn't been around to mind the wires any more than the animals."

[fooloftheking]

"Least they're providing information to help us not die," he says, tones bitter but also meaning the words. He glances at Cael for a minute. "You ever dealt with creatures like this before? I knew horses and goats before this place, but not unicorns or whatever they are."

Not that he isn't amused by them. Rather liking them because, despite their oddness, they're familiar.

"Poor thing. You mind if I take a look at it?"

[cannily]

His hand rolls over on his wrist, indicating his permission. "The spring is said to have healing properties, it's why I bring them this far south." For the leg, and for the bruises. A kick here and there, being crowded into a post, by creatures who hardly seem to know what to do with a creature of his size.

Down to his hose, he holds his boot for a moment. He hadn't discounted the idea of company, but company interested in his creatures is--should he stay, should he put his clothes back on?

Considering the kick he took to the hip yesterday, fuck it. Cael lays his boots over the branch, peels out of his hose, and only minds the lead to drag the loop within reach of the pool, as he slips in. "I barely knew horses and deer individually," he admits, the hot water soothing his side. "I grew up in a city on the water; I'm trying to learn."

[fooloftheking]

"Huh? Interesting theory to test, and just how far that can go." How much damage, and how do you take the chance and weight the risks when medical was such a minor thing. There are some working on it, but not the way most are likely used to.

"Not many in most modern times know anything about them," he points out, shrugging. "I grew up with them regularly in my life, and the care of your horse was pretty much your life. Not so much here but still they might become worth it here."

He glances over, not caring that he's stripping, and not finding much reason to be bothered either.

Stepping back, Bobo let his coat drop and fall to the ground. It would only get in his way while trying to see to the creature. Carefully he runs a hand over the kirin's side and then haunches, tracing down it's leg to gently cup the hoof. Not moving very fast at all, letting the animal adjust to the touch. When it lifts it's hoof away from him, he shifts to catch it and bring it up to rest against his knees between his legs so that he can inspect the hoof.

"There any rough ground around here? Like shale rock or something? Sand? If so, you should walk them there. It'll help keep their hooves back. If not, you may want to find something to use as a hoof knife. A regular one might work but it's harder."

[cannily]

"If it helps," he offers with a shrug. The magical properties of water are perhaps the only thing that seems to translate, about this place and his home. People born beneath a mountain, along its natural line. Flowing water bringing that power here. Perhaps what feeds the Spring is the same, and it's the most natural font of power, closest to them, renewing itself at all times.

Either way, it's something he's been told, and with no knowledge of how the animal's leg should heal, he can't say if it's helping or not. "It certainly doesn't seem to hurt them." Or him, for all that he can't see his back well enough, to know if it has any effect on the scars.

"I imagine it would be near the river," he answers. "Sand might be a ways off, I hear the coasts are days from here on foot." As for the rest, well: "I received some kind of pick, for their hooves; I didn't realize I should be scraping them down. It doesn't hurt them any, does it?"

[fooloftheking]

"And it's helping you now?" He figures he had to come out here for a reason and not just because the water is nice. Asking can't hurt then, and he might learn more. Trying to learn about this place is the one thing he figures will help him the most.

Using his finger, he clears the hoof a bit inside the curve, making sure everything looks okay. "Oh that pick will help, keep it clean and ensure there's no infection or growth. And nono, doesn't hurt them at all. No more than cutting your own nails as long as you don't cut too deep."

He lowers the hoof, thinking about his past as he pats the kirin. "And I'm sure they're probably fine, surviving on their own here, but just how we cared for domestic horses. You know, the guy at the forge might make a hoof knife."

[cannily]

"I can't quite tell," he answers honestly, nothing to gain in the Spring's validity. Perhaps if this were a place with coin, or such a place existed nearby. Train the creatures, haul the water, sell it like a fizzy tonic. Instead, he pulls his wet hair back from one shoulder, exposing the old pink and pale patches of thicker skin, bigger pores--the remnants of the first fire. "We'll see what these look like in another month."

He certainly hasn't felt as stiff, practicing his instruments.

Turning back around, he settles with his arms on the rocky edge. "Is it very different from the knives we already have?"

[fooloftheking]

Bobo glances over, considering the marks, knowing wounds like that from others over the years. Mostly scarring from hellfire, but he suspects these are not quite the same.

"Be interested to know, if you'll tell me," he says, glancing at the animal and back. "The knife is curved, making it easier to follow the line of the hoove and not leave any pointed spots. I'll look around and see if any here."