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Tired of Snow

Sat Jan 20, 2018 5:14 am

Noon of the twentieth day of the first month, 218 AR.
The Treadwell estate.
The master bedroom.

"Aloisius, you are sure there is nothing that you can do? I tire of the snow and the ice and the cold."

Alice Treadwell stands a few feet from the bedroom window with its shutters drawn tight, sealed against the cold with the aid of a curtain. She wears not only her pink gown and slippers but also a matching robe and cap. Despite all of this, she shivers.

Aloisius Treadwell rests on his back in bed, dressed in similar fashion to his wife, excepting his clothing being green to her pink. He is wrapped in blankets. He's actually quite warm.

"I have told you, lovey, mmph mmph. I control the harvest, hm, and its growth. I delight in fatness. I can influence the pigs, mmph, to make children, and, hm hm, I can do the same for faithful women. None of that, mmph, has aught to do with snow, hrm, or the getting rid of it. Now, darling, do come back to bed?"

That Alice does, stepping away from the window and, with a whuff and a grunt, settling herself back into the thick-timbered, thick-cushioned bed. "Well, Aloisius, that is an odd mix of things to be a god over."

"Hardly." With a push of his left arm, Mr. Treadwell fluffs out the covers and sheets, partially covering his wife's backside and a thigh. "Oh, turn around, mmph, and lie down, hm hm? The children are either at play in their rooms, hm, or in bed, themselves. Langley said he would be reading in his room next to ours. The servants and staff are all likely by the fire in the main room. Doctor Jacobson and his son, Beames, said they would be in their rooms. Pinky, Three-Hooves, and the others of theirs that we have left, mmph mmph, are safe outside in their pen. Arnold is in his stable. I am here, and you are letting all, mmph, the cold air into the bed! Have I missed much?"

With that speech given, Alice sighs and eases into the bed, lying down and tugging the covers from her husband. "Hush, windbag. Give your sermon tomorrow." Aloisius chuckles and chortles merrily at this, worming about in bed to face his beloved and, then, to get closer to her.

"I do not care for the cold either, love. But I shall shush, hm, and we shall rest. A nap before a late lunch will do neither of us harm, hm hm?"

"It will not make the snow go away, Aloisius."

Re: Tired of Snow

Sat Jan 27, 2018 4:26 am

Morning of the twenty-seventh day of the first month, 218 AR.
The royal palace of New Hibera.
The master bedroom.

"Orin, you are sure there is nothing that you can do? I tire of the snow and the ice and the cold."

Thus asks the King of New Hibera, wrapped very warmly in a red gown that goes well with his pink self and covered in a plush blanket of the same red cloth. He sits on a couch by his bed, munching with his half-brother on a tray of what is known as butterfluff pastries. The half-brother in question is still his chief advisor and his physician; born of a different mother, Dr. Orin Barrin is known as a whitewing among the New Hiberans. Being of a fairy race that segregates society by the colors of its members, the doctor can only hope to become king, himself, should his pink sibling pass without an heir some day. As it is, he is dressed in a matching red gown; in fact, he is wrapped in the same red blanket!

"It is cold out there, Richard, far too cold for any fairies to risk shoveling at the entrance to the cave."

"What of the Passage?"

The doctor gives the king a frown as he smushes a butterfluff pastry intro his own lips. Chewing follows, and then swallowing. "You mean the tunnel that you had dug some years ago. . . arguably illegally, mind you."


"Indeed! Or did you forget the second item on that treaty you signed years ago? Something about no other expansion into their lands other than what we had at the time?"

"It is a hole in the dirt under their Deck in town that just happens to lead through a tunnel underground to here. It could have been made by a mole or a rabbit or--"

"Or by a lump of flesh who wanted to meddle sometimes. You ought not use it. You ought to block it up in good faith."

"Block it up? Never! We might need another exit, should something happen! It's just. . . ."

"Just what, Richard?" Another frown slips over the jowly face, a frown barely visible amid the great, white beard he has let grow out in the last couple of years.

"I just tire of the snow and the cold. I miss my hunts with the bumbles. I much prefer going outside once in a while."

"Richard, Tubbius sees fit to keep us happy. His generosity gives us endless food and drink. We live in a cave that we can keep warm enough with our own magic, and we provide our own lights with our blessed bodies. We have nothing that we need from the Biglings right now."

"You forget that our Tubbius walks around among those Biglings as one of them, Orin. He has a wife and children and everything!" Fat fingers pluck one of the few remaining pastries from the plate between the brothers; a moment's bowing of his head in reverent prayer sees his request accepted. The magic of Tubbius continues to bless the faithful in New Hibera, and the remaining pastries are almost immediately joined by more of their like, appearing from nothing. "Thank you, Tubbius!" he adds, before questioning his brother, "I wonder what the Great Belly thinks of all this snow, brother."

"As deity or as mortal, Richard?"

"Either!" And then a grunted oomph as the king smushes another pastry whole into his lips. He is interrupted, briefly, by the doctor's own pudgy fingers reaching up to brush and swipe delicious buttery cream from lips and beard.

"Messy, messy, Richard. I would say that Tubbius cares little for it all either way. He knows nothing of snow in His plain, nothing of anything besides sun and rain. I would suppose that, as our Lord Treadwell, Tubbius cares little for all of the snow and ice, just as you do not care for it."

"Oh? That is a comfort, Orin, a very good comfort."

"I thought it might be."

"But, comfort or not, it will not make the snow go away, Doctor."
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