northclifflogs | Open | Some used your name for glory

I. Detlef

"Can I show you something?" Colin crept into the stable late in the evening when most people have gone indoors and is now smiling at Detlef hopefully.

II. Hammer and Spoke

This is becoming his new tradition. As much as he is walled up in his little bakery, he has plenty of introvert time. Spending the evenings there too went beyond the what was necessary for introvert time and left him feeling lonely. He finally found a drink he likes and has gained comfort in sitting quietly and listening to conversation. During a bout of storytelling, he even (very shyly) ventures an entry of his own.

"So my, um. My da wasn't allowed to cook in our house after this? He-he...well you have to know my sister Catherine loved bacon. And once, my da cooked bacon and he, it, he burned it so badly..."

His audience is deflating. He blushes.

"So he was going to throw it away, but he looked back to the pan and Catherine was already digging into it. She had this streak of black...ear to ear, and she was gnawing in the middle of this strip of bacon, and she said, 'Da, there's still a little bit of bacon in there!'"

As poor as the storytelling itself was, the punch line at least gets a chuckle from a few people. But Colin has learned his lesson, and is not going to try this sort of thing again. He can't stop blushing after that.

III. Marketplace

It's not uncommon to see any number of animals wandering the marketplace, but it's just not a good idea for chickens to run about unattended, seeing as how so many people and creatures eat them. That is why Colin is darting through the crowd, his eyeline right around your feet.

"Excuse me, have you seen a chicken?" A beat as he realizes that's not nearly enough information. "Um. A hen, brown, with white specks? She's very friendly."

IV. Wildcard

Edited 2019-07-27 02:34 (UTC)

He looks up from where he's sitting on the ground, struggling to try to fix a saddle and grins. "Anything." The saddle gets set to the side and he gets up to his feet, staggering a little before sitting into one of the chairs. His legs had cramped up a little, apparently.

Colin is gestured to another wooden chair. They're simple, but sturdy, and currently no one has to displace a cat to sit.

Colin is definitely tempted to grab Detlef and drag him outside the village walls, but he settles for a good look about and the quiet question of whether anyone might be about. When certain they are secure, he breaks a strand of grass off from the ground and holds it over the soil. In a few seconds, the grass grows from the bottom down--a base, a root, eventually growing back into the ground from Colin's hand.

He's been practicing, actively practicing, is the only thing Detlef can assume. After their last conversation he'd been fairly convinced it would take a lot of time before Colin would try using anything, but clearly something's changed.

A few moments of quiet pass before he's nodding, slowly.

"I've a little ability with plants," he says in something only slightly louder than a whisper, "but most of it is with animals. Maybe that's because that's what I practice and use it for, most of the time." Though there are certainly more than a few plants that are doing very well around the stables that owe more to him than nature.

"Do you... Do you have a goal?" A reason for the practicing? And using?

That gets some hesitation. Colin isn't sure he can put it into words. He looks down at the newly-planted blade of grass.

"I'm...not sure, actually. In my head, I think of making things lovelier, making things green and fertile. Making the village prosper. Getting it through hard times. But of course none of that is allowed and isn't very private at all. So it's, it's dreams, rather than goals, right now. Once I find out what else I can do, maybe there will be goals."

"It's got to be small," he agrees quietly. "They're not going to accept it."

Gods, sometimes he feels like he shouldn't accept it. He has a gift, it saves animal lives, but what if that's just the temptation speaking and he's doing ill by being weak? He needs to pray more and make sure his heart is in the right place. Make sure it's just helping, and not his ego, or pride, or something, that motivates him.

“So come with me somewhere,” Colin whispers. “Help me experiment. Maybe in the woods, where no one can see. As soon as the sun comes up tomorrow.”

There's so much danger in this. There's possibly so many violations of what's right, too. All he's done deliberately previously was to help animals and others, not himself, and this is absolutely crossing that line. Detlef feels lost. Eventually, though, he nods.

"We have to be very careful, though. There are a few new people in the village, people who wouldn't be bothered by selling us out because they don't know us."

That reaction takes the wind out of Colin's sails. Detlef is a comparatively pious man, but he'd also wanted this for Colin. A glance about confirms no one is listening.

"You wanted me to do this," he whispers. "Now I'm saying yes. What's wrong?"

It's a good question.

"I do want this. I want us to be able to use the Vice to help. I'm just... scared, sometimes. I'm sorry." He needs to find his confidence again, the confidence that has had him making animals well for years here, on his own. Detlef takes a breath. "It's good. I'm good. Don't mind me."

He's started something. Now he has to hope it's the right sort of something.

Colin didn't shake off the religious upbringing overnight. It took years for him to question it, to stop hating himself, to realize that even people who claim to be divine are willing to lie. Slowly, he leans in to give Detlef a hug. He speaks into his ear, as softly as possible.

"You're afraid it could be a slippery slope. That we'll become something other than what we are."

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"I see lots of chickens," comes the grim reply, followed by the quirk of an eyebrow as Colin elaborates. "...maybe."
A cursory glance around-- because, as far as people in town go, Colin isn't the worst-- and a one-shoulder shrug follows.

"Has she gone on the lam."

"Very much so," Colin answers apologetically. "Please, she's a really good layer." Not to mention very sweet. Chickens have a weird reputation among those who don't keep chickens.

"I'll keep an eye out." It doesn't sound like much of a promise, and Ben is already lighting up a cigarette, either so unbothered or simply ensuring that everyone thinks he is.

Colin almost speaks again, until he’s suddenly gaping at Ben as if seeing him sprout a second head. The man is afraid. Of what? Of him? Of everything. Why? What is Colin doing wrong? What can he do differently to make it better? He tries backing away. Actually, might as well be safe and leave. With a belated nod to acknowledge what the man said, he turns and walks briskly away.

That look is enough to make Ben's blood run cold, and although he's the last person in the world to want to make a scene, he watches Colin go with a look of confusion and dread.

Fuck.

Back in Cliffside, before Nelda, Faro's evening tavern-time involved a lot more drinking and making eyes and mutely carousing. Northcliff Pass is much smaller though, and he can't pretend he's someone else here. So he's been doing much the same as Colin: quietly observing, enjoying the more chatty patrons gossip.

Some of that observing has been of Colin. From afar, as he did of people he was actually curious about. When the baker is brave enough to share his story, Faro's one of the handful that's attentive all the way through, even chuckling a little louder than he would naturally to try and soothe his embarrassment.

Yeah, he knows that feeling. As the focus shifts to a drunkard boasting about a big fish, Faro carries his tankard around the outskirts of the room, making his way over to where Colin's seated.

"I assume it wwasn't him wwho taught you to bake so well," he asks with a friendly smile before pointing at himself then at the chair beside Colin. Is it ok if he sits?

Colin gives Faro the space to sit down, smiling shyly.

"My mother," he confirms. "She was from Aguil. She met my father when he was a sailor. They fell in love and decided to move back to Maireglenne to become farmers. She taught me everything I know about flavors, really. The ones she was used to were so different. So she was always cooking and baking so she could have a taste of home. And so we could taste what she tasted growing up."

He settles in, tankard plonked on the table and body turned slightly towards Colin. Farogil listens intently, smiling at the fondness he can hear in the man's voice as he speaks of his mother's and her cooking.

"What was your favorite?"

"She'd get fish and freshwater prawns and make something with rice and saffron and her special spice blend. The spices are hard to come by, and there were six of us, so we didn't have it very often. I make it whenever my sister comes to visit."

A glance toward the fire, then back at Farogil.

"What about you? Where'd you learn embroidery?"

The way Farogil raises his eyebrows and curls his lips suggest he would also find that meal delicious. He's readying himself to ask if the rest of his siblings ever visit when Colin speaks first.

"Oh, I- I liked to draw and write but my mmother-," he pauses, mouth opening and adjusting while he chooses his words, "instead of being a monk or painter, suggested broider."

It's mostly true. He was outright forbidden from any trade or hobby that would have him in front of influential people or in churches where someone might make unwanted connections. Even embroidery is pushing it, but when he first pleaded to be allowed to apprentice as broider, he promised his mother and "patron" that he would partner with a tailor who could accept commissions on his behalf.

That seems peculiar. Being able to write is a highly marketable skill, and if Farogil enjoyed it, why wouldn't he go with that? Although he supposes embroidery is like more expensive drawing. He bobs his head.

"I used to draw some. Back when the magistrate taught me and my sister to read and write, and there was paper about. The only paper I keep in my house is to write her with, so."

A mild-mannered shrug. This isn't so hard. He's making an actual friend. Or, he thinks so.

Again he mentions his sister and only his sister, and Faro catches on that perhaps the rest of his family is deceased, or at least not available to visit or write. Good thing he hadn't asked about them before!

Faro takes a swig of his ale -proper ale tonight, not small beer- and inclines his head with curiosity, "What did you like to draw?"

“Water and plants.” A shrug. “Raindrops on a leaf, or a creek. Flowers. Things like that.” He doesn’t know what it is about water that draws him, but there it is. “What about you?”

That answer makes Farogil grin. "The same. Flowers and vines and... busy patterns."

He holds his wrist up between them and taps at the cuff of his shirt; like most of his clothes, there's embroidery around the hems because he can't help himself. This tunic has about an inch wide band of a complex, repeating vine pattern in green that's a few shades deeper than the mossy color of the fabric.

Faro knows his style and sticks to it.