Parley

Parley

Postby Cherny » Sat Mar 14, 2015 7:04 am

He's known of the glade for a couple of years, since the crows led him there; secret, secluded, quiet but for old echoes that faintly thrum in his teeth and itch in his throat. A circle of churned earth and blasted vegetation being gradually reclaimed by the woods, by grasses and flowers and shrubs, ringed about with splintered stumps and, farther back, trunks from which the bark has been stripped, flayed. After some consideration he'd decided it was where lightning had struck, and spent several long afternoons thereafter poking around for the thunderbolt that - so he'd read - might be found buried at the centre of the circle.

Here, now, on a sunlit morning at Winter's end, the clearing is still, quiet as the pause between one breath and the next; snow clings to the shaded spots and hollows, but elsewhere early spring flowers turn bright faces to the sun.

The squire picks his way carefully through the woods, a little beetle picking his way over the drab brown of last autumn's leaves and past the tentative greens of this spring's new growth. Arrayed in black from head to toe - iron pot helm and battered plate at shoulders, elbows and knees all darkened with stove polish; scavenged Militia coat too large by far for his narrow frame; strips of broadcloth at his throat and bound about thin legs from knee to ankle to ward off the chill - he seems more like a child draped in his father's clothes than anything. And yet there are martial touches here and there: the sturdy little falchion blade sheathed at his hip, the intricately-carved spear he carries with a scrap of white linen tied near the head, a flag or pennant of sorts.

The proceeds with wary determination, head turning this way and that to keep an eye on the woods around him, dark eyes wide and alert beneath the brim of his helmet; a pause, just briefly, at the edge of the clearing, to lift his gaze to the treetops, to the wisps of high cloud far above, to the crows that lurk like inkblots in the tops of the trees or circle like flecks of soot overhead.

A steadying breath before he squares his shoulders, straightens his back, marches to the rotten trunk that sprawls at the centre of the clearing. Youthful features set in what he hopes is stoic and resolute and does not betray the hammering of his heart behind his ribs.

At the fallen trunk he hunts in his satchel for a moment to retrieve a couple of items - something about the size of two fists, neatly wrapped in clean linen; an earthenware bottle of the sort used by labourers and farmhands, tightly corked. These he places atop the rotten trunk, then steps smartly back a half-dozen paces, turning slowly to survey the encircling trees. A deep breath, purposefully slow; then another, and another. He licks lips suddenly dry, and casts about for a moment for a handful of snow to suck on, the cold stinging his tongue and gnawing at his teeth.

Fingers tightening about the haft of that makeshift flag, he draws a deeper breath yet and lifts his head to call to the treeline.

"Red D-dragon!"

His voice is hoarse, raw, and quickly swallowed by the waiting woods.
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Re: Parley

Postby Antichthon » Sat Mar 14, 2015 9:10 am

Minutes passed, with no response. The forest seemed deaf to the squire's call.

But It did respond. And when It arrived, It was so silent that not even the denizens of the forest knew It was there.

"You have summoned me, as is your right." The voice came from behind Cherny. And if he turned, he would find himself within arm's reach of a giant, writhing patch of shimmering red. "But know this," It continued. "Your choice to summon me upon a patch of destruction has put me in a foul mood. And by my agreement with the Unicorn, I am perfectly within my rights to consume you if I deem your reasons for disturbing my sleep inadequate. And I am very, very hungry.

"So tell me, would-be knight. What is so important that you would risk finding a new home within my belly?"
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Re: Parley

Postby Cherny » Sat Mar 14, 2015 10:06 am

Minutes of waiting, of listening. Minutes portioned out into shallow, shivering breaths and fast, nervous heartbeats. He turns slowly, casting uncertain glances to where the crows perch in the bare branches, squinting cautiously at the gaps between the trunks.

Long enough to wonder, to doubt. Was it true? Would the creature heed such a call? Could it be spoken with, reasoned with? Or was this little ritual more a result of Catch's madness, his inability to discern a difference between what happens within his head and without?

Long enough to consider the folly of this expedition, to consider calling again or taking the silence as reason to leave - toying with the idea of abandoning this quest entirely, of hurrying back through the woods to the relative safety of home. A wiser course of action by far, almost certainly preferable to standing here in the woods, alone.

When it speaks at last the boy flinches, jumps clear off the ground, stifling a hoarse little shout of alarm as he whirls about; the crows clatter from their perches to circle overhead, croaking in similar dismay. The boy's eyes are wide, wider at the sight of the thing itself so close, and he stumbles back a couple of hasty steps, and a couple more as he notes the scale of it, struggling to focus on it, to discern form within the roiling scarlet, clutching his flag before him with both hands, the spearhead shivering with the tightness of his grip.

The thing issues warnings, cautions and threats, and the squire listens, nodding to show that he understands, thin features ashen between stove-polished helm and black woollen scarf. Afraid, undeniably so, and yet struggling to keep his wits about him; it's something the creature says that reminds him, that gives him something to latch onto, and he straightens a little, draws breath to speak, and manages to force out words on the third attempt.

"If you h-hunger, s-ser, there is b-bread and, and d-drink for you." Prying his fingers from the spear long enough to gesture to the bundle and bottle left on the fallen trunk, before ducking a hasty bow, the tension of his limbs rendering his movements jerky, puppetlike. "If it p-please you."

The offering duly presented he straightens, apparently finding some reassurance in etiquette, in the rituals of good manners. He stands stiffly, head respectfully bowed, eyes averted as best he can from the mass of colour.

"I am s-sorry if I, I woke you, s-ser. My name is, is Cherny, my knight is S-sir Elliot Gahald; I, I am f-friend to the Prince of S-spring Flowers and the P-prince of Autumn Leaves. I've come to p-petition you, ser," Stumbling over that word weighted with importance, with formality. "for, for m-mercy."

A pause as he swallows, steadies himself, deathly afraid and yet striving to do his best, to be stalwart as his knight would wish.

"My f-friends and me, we live in the, the w-woods, ser. And I, I'd not like f-for any of them t-to get eaten."
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Re: Parley

Postby Antichthon » Sat Mar 14, 2015 10:51 am

The little squire's manners were well-received, and the aura of anger disappeared when the boy set forth his offering. His fear weakened Its magic, and the boy would begin to see streaks of pale green within the red mass. But Its shape, Its structure, would remain a mystery to him.

"Bestill your heart, little one. I anger easily, but I calm quickly when given the respect I deserve." And while the food and drink were but crumbs to It, it was the thought that counted. By the looks of him, this was a boy without much to his name, and his gift represented a non-negligible amount of his coin. Something thin and long flicked out to retrieve the bundle, which disappeared into the red mass. A moment later it was swallowed in a single gulp, earthenware bottle and all.

"Mercy." It burped, and continued. "Are those crows the friends that you speak of?" It hadn't lived in these woods for as long as it had without learning to recognize the signs of friendship, even between species. Humans were not the only beasts to take friends outside of their own kind. "Your crows do not concern me; I can guarantee their safety. But you, little one. Do you take from the land? Do you feed upon its fat, either plant or animal? Or do you simply use the forest as a place of refuge, and respect that it is a land in need of healing?"
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Re: Parley

Postby Cherny » Sat Mar 14, 2015 12:30 pm

For weeks, months of the Red-and-Gold Summer he had maintained this charade; this semblance of polite deference, for fear of what open rebellion might bring; a remaking, his thoughts and beliefs delicately sculpted by the Lady's witchcraft until he was compliant, obedient, docile, something other than himself. He had learned to be quiet, to be unobtrusive, to be ignored as beneath notice; to avoid anything which might be read as insolence or impudence.

It is his mask, his armour, his shield in the face of capricious power.

The creature bids him to calm and he nods quickly, working to moderate his breaths, though there's little which might calm his racing heart; traitorous memories surface of the Fiddler, of the fate which befell his peers and playmates, devoured alive by something in the woods. A different beast, but the same woods, the same fate. He plants his feet more firmly in case they feel tempted to dance against his will.

"I, I'm sorry, s-ser. You are p-powerful and frightening." Apology and explanation, a numb sort of honesty in it; the offering is accepted, whisked back into the nebulous thing, and again the squire flinches at the quickness of it.

The crows; a wince as the creature mentions them, a guilty glance to where they circle overhead, unwilling to land while the thing sprawls in the clearing.

"No s-ser. I mean, yes, they're my f-friends, but they, they're not who I m-meant." Questions, accusations, and he answers cautiously, weighing his words with care.

"I, I have a g-garden, ser - a, a s-small one. And in s-summer we pick b-berries, and nuts in the autumn - not, not all of them, there's p-plenty left."

Hesitation, then, before he forges on.

"One of my f-friends is a, a h-hunter, ser - he traps conies and, and hunts d-deer sometimes. It, it's his t-trade, that h-his da taught him." Resigned to this news being ill-received, but resolved to argue his case. "He, he's not one to k-kill for sport, ser. Just t-to eat. He g-gets hungry."

A helpless half-shrug admits that he can do little to sway the creature if it chooses not to show clemency. But there's something said, then, which catches his attention, has him thinking, wondering. When he speaks again it's with every ounce of deference he can muster, a humble query from one who doesn't quite understand.

"If, if it please you, s-ser - what sort of, of h-healing's needed?"
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Re: Parley

Postby Antichthon » Sat Mar 14, 2015 1:49 pm

If he wished to cower in fear, It would not stop him. It knew itself to be powerful and frightening, but to hear it spoken from the lips of another, even one as insignificant as this boy, was soothing to Its ego.

"If it is a garden than you have planted with your own hand, cared for with your own hand, then it is yours to do with as you wish. But outside of your garden..." That same long, thin appendage wrapped about the boy's shoulders and drew him closer. Its grip was gentle, but firm; he would do well to cooperate. It drew him close, and in the red shimmer, he would make out a pair of eyes, no larger than his own. Their irises were red, and their sclera black. The expression they wore was one of dispassion. The expression of a creature assured in its knowledge of its superiority. A creature that only deigned to speak with a maggot like Cherny.

"Outside of your garden, you shall not harvest a single nut. a single berry. Your birds may do so to sate their bellies, but, not you. If I discover you have harvested food from earth you did not till, you will be my meal. And as for your friend, he shall not hunt. I care not that he hunts for sustenance. There is no cull without casualties. If he is to starve, then he shall starve, and his loss will leave food for another. If he wishes to appeal this, then your friend may call upon me himself."

It released Cherny and drew back. The eyes were no longer visible. "If your friend is of age, tell him that I seek companions in the spring. In these months, I may allow him special privileges in return for his services. When you come of age, the offer shall apply to you, as well. But if he is not of age, you shall remind him that my patience is limited. If he does wish to appeal, let him know that he gambles with his life."

What sort of healing was needed? There was a simmering of anger in the air again. Restrained anger. It was no fault of this little one that he was young, and did not see what was plainly obvious to It. "Time. Time is the only balm that will heal these wounds. Many plants and animals are upon the edge of extinction. Many of them you would not even recognize as being in danger. The forest is a complex thing, and to those not wise to it, it may appear healthy even upon the verge of death. A species may be superficially numerous, and yet within mere decades, vanish. Others may be rare, but be amongst the last to die out.

"Do you know of the Cook Rat?" It didn't wait for Cherny to respond. "I doubt you do. I have not seen one of their kind for over thirteen centuries. They were devilishly smart little things. Smaller than a mouse, but as clever as a crow. Your kind so named them Cook Rats because, when able, they did not take their food plain. They would combine their foods, to bring out their flavors.

"When your kind first arrived, their cunning had made them one of the most successful of all forms of life in this forest. And it was not long before they discovered your food, and your spices. They raided your kitchens. Your granaries. Those first human settlers of this land suffered a massive famine. And I recognized that the Cook Rats had become too numerous, and over the next century, I culled them in massive numbers.

"I culled them in ways that supported those individuals too cautious to enter human settlements. They were the ones to bear children, and their children learned to avoid your kind, and your food. They were still numerous, but they were not so destructive to your farms.

"But of course, it is impossible to breed out such a behavior entirely. The Cook Rats continued to feast on your excess, and while your people did go hungry, they did not starve any more than the Cook Rats. But your kind is loathe to suffer your share of nature's burden. Those early settlers had made their foothold in this land, and as they grew strong, they fought back. They tricked the Cook Rats with poison. The Cook Rats, always eager to try new spices, were easy targets. And soon, those that raided their pantries were dead.

"But in time, their numbers were replaced by the Cook Rats within the woods. So your kind poisoned the woods as well. And in another century, they were gone. The last Cook Rats belonged to a tiny population under my direct care. But I was young an inexperienced, and they were too few to repopulate.

"The Cook Rats were not the only creatures to die from your poison. All life suffered. And even to this day, traces of your poison remain, occasionally wilting crops and sickening animals. They did not, and do not, deserve such fates."

Its anger had built as It told It's story, but now that it was done, the anger dissipated. "Time will heal these woods. They will never be what they once were--nothing shall bring back the species lost to your kind's selfishness--but they will heal. Whether or not your kind will ever heal from the rot that consumes you, remains to be seen. But I will do my part. It is your kind that has become the Cook Rats. Too numerous to survive without the destruction of nature. And just as the Cook Rats who took your food were the first to be culled, so shall those of your kind who raid the woods be the first removed from your population."
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Re: Parley

Postby Cherny » Tue Mar 17, 2015 2:59 am

He strives not to cower; he does his best to remain resolute, dauntless, as befits the squire of a valiant knight. He is still, however, a boy; a child of Myrken Wood who knows too well how easy it is for a life to be snuffed out. His fear is a constant thing here, face to face with the Red Dragon, no matter how he tries to hide it.

The thing reaches for him, grasps him, and he trembles violently beneath his patchwork armour, stumbling forward on reluctant and unsteady legs, breath frozen in his throat. His eyes are dark, ringed with white and set in ashen features as the thing meets his gaze, and all he can think of is the Fiddler, of eleven children lost to that monster's hungry maw.

It sets its terms, its rules, makes its warnings and threats. When released the squire lurches away with a breath that is closer to a sob, and by the time he's scrabbled back some semblance of composure the creature is telling a story of rats, of poison, of loss. He listens, or at least he remains silent, drawing shuddering breaths between teeth tight-clenched so they do not chatter. He listens, head bowed, thin fingers gripping that spear for support as much as anything,

"It, it w-won't work, ser!" The protest erupts from his lips despite his efforts to contain it, and once that dam is broken further words follow. "They, there's b-been monsters her for, for ever, and they've k-killed people - lots of p-people. And, and n-now you want t-to do the same but it, it w-won't make them stop - or they'd've s-stopped years ago." Exasperated, distraught, head bowed, gaze averted from the wrath he is sure will follow. But he draws breath again, swallows thickly, carries on, before he might be struck down by lashing tendrils or gnashing jaws.

"You'll j-just make them h-hate the, the woods and, and want to c-cut them down or b-burn them - and, and you'll kill them f-for it, so they'll b-bring soldiers and, and it'll g-go on! And, and it d-doesn't matter if you w-win or, or the t-town wins, because someone h-has to lose, and things'll just g-get worse."

Desperation in his tone, the hoarse words dragged from his throat in a rush for fear that if he stops, if he pauses, he won't be able to say what needs to be said.

"You, you want to m-make the woods d-dangerous, ser, but that won't h-help anything. They'll just f-fight you. But, but if you m-make the woods kind - and, and if you t-talk to the t-town people and, and teach them - they'll want to c-care for the woods and, and know not t-to take too m-much - just, just enough. And, and they can h-help heal things."

At last the squire falls quiet, his plea made, his shoulders slumped; an appeal to compassion, to compromise. His words exhausted, he can only shrug helplessly, able to do no more.

"Th-that's all, ser."
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Re: Parley

Postby Antichthon » Tue Mar 17, 2015 7:39 am

And Its wrath he did face. Its anger bloomed. The red mass writhed and spread, growing ever larger. The eyes rose up and up, until they were above even the tallest of trees. And if Cherny tried to run, It would restrain him. He would listen.

"You presume to lecture me?" It boomed. "You, a youth among mayflies! Do you believe that I am oblivious to what has transpired in my woods? That I am so foolish to think I am the first threat your town has faced? And do you insult me by suggesting the threats of your past match my power, my grandeur? Let them come, and I will feast. Let them bring soldiers, and I will feast. And let them retaliate against the forest, and see how they fare against the wrath of the united powers of these woods!

"You say things will not improve. They shall. Either your kind shall learn humility, or you shall die. And I do not refer to just the inhabitants of your petty town. I refer to all men, across the face of this world. You may defeat me. You may drive me from these woods. But your kind will face judgement. If not from me, then from powers even beyond myself. And even if you are to defeat them, it does not matter! You do not see that you wage war against the very forces that give you life! If you are victorious, you only hasten upon your path to extinction!

"And you are so foolish to suggest that I approach them with reason? All solutions require a thinning of your numbers! Even if you were to take merely what you need to survive, you still would kill this forest by the bulk of your population alone! This is a cull not merely of punishment, but of necessity! Do you think your kind is able to cull itself? Do you think that in the name of the greater good that a mother will let her child starve? That a spouse will sacrifice their lover? Or even more importantly, that the parasitic rich and fat and powerful among you would face any form of judgement?!

"One day, when your numbers have thinned, and you have learned your place, I will do as you say. I will approach in peace, and teach those that remain how they shall care for the woods. If I had not been but a child a millenium and a half ago, I would have done so before it was too late. But now, it is too late for reason. I shall restore balance by force, or I shall die trying. For the sake of all of nature. Including man."

It would release Cherny, if It had been forced to grab him. "But I tire of explaining myself to you, Cook Rat. Go, run, and spread word of my edicts. They are for your sake, not mine."
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Re: Parley

Postby Cherny » Wed Mar 18, 2015 12:04 pm

The creature's rebuke is a storm, and the squire is buffeted by it; stumbling back as the thing looms over the trees, but not quite breaking, not quite turning to flee outright.

"I, I m-meant no insult, s-ser!" Words almost lost amid the thunder of the Red Dragon's ire; it rages against his protests, against his attempt at compromise, clinging to the spear shaft as to the mast of a tempest-tossed ship; he can only shake his head in mute denial at the beast's questions, his courage exhausted.

The tirade ends with a dire oath, and he finds himself dismissed; the quiet following that rage near drags the breath from his lungs, and he can manage only a shaky bow - some last attempt at courtesy - before he turns to march on unsteady legs to the edge of the clearing, to the woods and - if he's lucky - out of them.

He manages maybe a half-dozen steps past the treeline before he breaks into a run.
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