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northclifflogs2020-02-07 12:29 am
deathwalk) wrote in northclifflogs2020-02-07 12:29 am
Entry tags:
Blue Blue Caravan
WHO: Wilde, Emery, Johanna and two open starters
WHAT: Stuck in NCP until the snow clears enough for him to gtfo
WHEN: Early - Mid February
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Screaming goats - may update as needed
WHAT: Stuck in NCP until the snow clears enough for him to gtfo
WHEN: Early - Mid February
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Screaming goats - may update as needed
- Open -
- Market - Wilde had found a nice spot to unload the two-wheeled cart, unfolding its various panels to put his wares out for display. Various goat cheeses took up most of the display. Most were simple, but there were a few fancy ones with nuts and herbs and such mixed in. There was also a quantity of yarn skeins, soft as anything. Some were dyed in shades of green, red, or yellow, but most were plain.
Wilde had taken to relaxing on the wagon seat while Pehj had found a spot relatively dry and free of snow to stretch out, occasionally bleating at any passersby who looked like they might give him some dried fruits. - The Hammer and Spoke - It was getting easier to avoid the soldiers in town now that they had taken shelter in the mines, but Wilde was still on guard. He'd heard they acted like they had the run of the place, and frankly he wanted to avoid getting conscripted if they were on the prowl for hale young folk to fatten their ranks.
Fortunately, the inn was too crowded for him to stand out much. There wasn't much else for the townsfolk to do on these cold winter nights aside from the usual drinking, dice, and occasional brawl. Wilde kept out of the thick of it, but observed the goings-on with what might have been a wistful smile before whatever reverie he was in the middle of was interrupted by a few soldiers barging in.
The goatherd ordered another drink, and then abandoned his place at the bar as he slipped into a chair across from a stranger, setting the drink down as though he'd been asked to do so.
"Sorry," he murmured, never quite taking his eyes off the soldiers, "I won't stay long. I just didn't want to deal with- well."
He inclined his head to the soldiers who were already hassling the others sitting at the bar to go drink elsewhere. - For Emery -
Traveling in the mountains was always a gamble - but it was especially bad during the winter. Wilde had finally made it home, lighting the lanterns along the narrow, dangerous path that split off from the Pilgrim's Path and led to his homestead. In case there was anyone mad enough to be traveling in this snow (himself excluded). It wasn't uncommon for the faithful to make a bit of a detour to spend the night somewhere warm and dry or trade for supplies, but that was the extent of Wilde's company.
He wasn't particularly surprised to see someone coming up the path while he was out seeing to the Ladies of the House (four fat hens) who clucked disapprovingly at Wilde when he scattered the rest of their feed. He stepped around two young bucks who were playfighting, their horns locked and heads pressed together as they grunted and pawed at the snow, and opened the gate.
"Sorry," he said, "haven't had much time to clear the path. There's stew and a bit of bread if you're hun-"
He blinked, realizing his impromptu guest wasn't some random pilgrim, but someone from the town proper. The bloody magistrate to boot! Wilde promptly straightened, feeling a growing tension in his gut. Something must be amiss to risk coming up here.
"Er. Magistrate. Sir." - For Johanna -
One does not generally apply the term majestic to goats. That's because, in general, it doesn't really fit.
But no one would argue that there was a certain dignity to Wilde's flock. There had been several generations where his ancestors had bred them with the wild ibexes around the mountains, and then further selective breeding until you got the fine specimen that was currently standing on top of some poor soul's roof.
Pehj was a proud looking creature. From the curve of his horns to his sleek chestnut coat, he cut a striking sight, silhouetted against the gray light of early dawn.
And then he opened his mouth.
"AAAaaaaAAAAA!" screamed Pehj from the roof, echoing across the village. "AAaaaaAAAA aaaAAA AAAaaAAAAAAA!!!"
It hadn't taken Wilde long to find the creature. The snows were deep and there weren't exactly many goats of Pehj's size down from the mountains, so the trail from where he'd untied his reigns to his current perch had been pretty easy to follow.
"Get down from there!" Wilde hissed, gesticulating wildly. Pehj ignored him, and bleated somehow louder.
Wilde searched around for a ladder. This was not, in fact, the most infuriating place Pehj had managed to park himself (he had once gotten about three quarters of the way up some ramparts - gravity for goats was not so much a law as a suggestion) but Wilde could already feel hot embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted this morning was the scrutiny of grouchy villagers woken from their beds by Pehj's temper tantrum.
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It was such an obvious lie, and as much as he didn't mind Emery hovering, he didn't much care to be fussed over. He shucked off the the green leather surcoat, the fleece trim damp with melting snow. The red coat underneath was also soaked, and he shed it, draping it over the back of a chair he set near the fire to dry.
For someone who gave the impression of a hermit farmer, Wilde sported quite a lot of tattoos. Most seemed almost like idle scribbles - looping lines and knots that bared no known significance. But one was much more detailed than the rest. Positioned just over his heart, depicted a skull and flute.
"There's blankets, upstairs. Clean. Just grab the whole lot. You'll need one as much as I will. The cold tends to creep in weather like this."
For now he needed a warm change of clothes and to boil some water.
The "upstairs" was more of a glorified loft. The wood floor was dry, old and creaked, though like the rest of the little cottage, everything was clean and well-kept. There was a bed, piled high with blankets and quilts just as Wilde said - all made from the heavenly soft wool his goats produced. There was also a loom, baskets of yarn, and scattered materials for making dyes set aside likely for spring and summer.
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"Right," he says, watches after Wilde as he goes to boil the water. Then he comes back to himself, rubs absently at his beard, and heads for the stairs. He rests his walking stick against the wall near the foot of them, then heads up into the loft.
The blankets are found without difficulty, and Emery is too much a habitually orderly person not to fold each one into a neat stack before he carries then back downstairs. He pauses when he catches sight of the dyeing materials and lingers over them with a practitioner's interest, then returns to the stairs and heads back down.
"Blankets," he announces, and carries them over to whatever surface looks cleanest to set them down.
--
(* it's the battering ram of repressed bisexuality)
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Wilde sidled up to Emery, "accidentally" bumping shoulders as he picked a blanket off the pile with an uttered thanks.
He watched him out the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his reaction, just to make sure it wasn't just his imagination or some sort of weird wishful thinking.
"Grab one for yourself," Wilde urged, before disappearing into the larder for some supplies. Nothing like warmed goatsmilk mixed with honey, ginger and cloves on a night like this.
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"--oh," he starts, and then, "of course," at Wilde's words of thanks, and it takes him a fraction of a second longer than it should have to recognize that another man probably would have politely stepped aside to make more room. It's precisely what he would have done himself, and yet he hadn't, and the reason for why is not so mysterious to him as he'd like.
(It had not been that mysterious to him even three decades ago, when he and Bertram had huddled together for warmth in their lean-tos on the eve of that last skirmish between Cliffside and Black Rock, before they deserted the army.)
Wilde says, "Grab one for yourself," and Emery says, "Right," again, repeating himself both in word and in deed; because his eyes follow Wilde as he walks away until he disappears from sight. He exhales and reaches up to rub a hand across his eyes and the bridge of his nose, then picks up a blanket for himself and goes to one of the chairs near the fire. Once there he has to ease himself down into it, for the cold always causes the old injury in his left knee to act up. He stretches it out with a small sound of discomfort, but already the proximity to the fire is loosening the tight tendons and ligaments. (Would that a bit of fire could provide relief from other ailments--or desires he'd thought he'd left behind as juvenile fantasies.)
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While Emery brooded, Wilde mixed the milk, honey, and spices in a saucepan, warming it over the fire until it was just shy of bubbling.
He was sure he wasn't mistaken at this point, though he doubted that's what Emery had in mind when he trudged up here. But chasing ghosts left you seeing them in the strangest places - Wilde certainly had no place to judge. Emery's cheekbones and mannerisms had left his own mind wandering to better days with Captain Arvid. Maybe they both weren't thinking clearly.
When he'd finished and poured, Wilde stood unnecessarily close at Emery's side, proffering the cup.
"You do seem tense," he noted. "Is this a problem?"
Whatever 'this' was, or was going to be.
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It's always been isolating, and terribly lonely, and so would it be the most unforgivable thing in the world if he sought to alleviate that for a little while?
He pushes himself carefully up from the chair and reaches out to take the mug from Wilde. Their fingers, and his mouth twists into a bittersweet sort of smile. "I ought to be the one asking that question, I should think," he answers, quietly abashed, and breathes in the comforting aroma of the milk and spices. "Seeing as I'm the one taking advantage of your hospitality." (The hospitality of a very young man, his son's childhood friend; that goes without saying.)
He looks up from the mug to meet Wilde's eyes, searching his expression for--something, and takes the most cautious of steps forward into his orbit.
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"Well," Wilde shrugged, "there's nothing for it on a night like this."
As excuses went, it was a pretty paltry one, but if Emery was going to grapple to rationalize this, Wilde might as well toss him a rope. He leaned up against the arm of the chair, not quite sitting, not quite standing and his gaze drifting over Emery's face, down to linger on the the laces of his jerkin.
"It's not like I offer this to every pilgrim off the path," he added.
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"It's not like I offer this to every pilgrim off the path."
At that he chuckles once, the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly. "I'd never have presumed," he replies, lifts up the mug for a drink, then lowers it again and sets it aside. For a moment his hand hovers, as though he's uncertain of where to put it, before allowing his fingers to gently rest against Wilde's on the arm of the chair. The tips of his fingers are callused from hours spent with a quill in hand, stained slightly from ink, but long accustomed to delicate work. And there is a delicacy to how his touch lingers against Wilde's skin, as though prepared to withdraw quickly.
He purses his lips, and then, "Wilde, if I've got it wrong..." He trails off into unguarded silence, waiting.
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"You haven't," he reassured. It was easier to talk about it like this - without putting it into exact words. No sense scaring Emery off.
He guided his hand down the open tunic, along the bare skin of his chest before finally settling it on a sturdy thigh. Wilde was built lean and nimble, but there was an undeniable sturdiness to him, and Emery's hand was lovely and warm.
"When you're ready, we can head upstairs," he said gently, barely audible over the wind buffeting the cottage which stood resolute against the storm.
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"Lead the way."