Lightstar Family/Xarnelf/Roleplay 78
Noble Beast #4
(Roleplay from Caim Haerthorne)
Meanwhile, in Idapur...
"Alright, alright... put a bit more pressure through the ballast... then start working the winch..."
The sound of men heaving began to rise as several guards chosen for their heavy-set physique helped wind the thick ropes around the winches. Grunts, curses and the odd high-pitched yelp that seemed to be coming from somewhere on the other side of the machine could be heard. Walking around this contraption, this penultimate example of Aenilian ingenuity, a rather small man with a shining bald pate covered in what looked like spilt tea was pottering about with various small instruments whose purpose was probably so unique as to be completely ludicrous in any other situation, all whilst a youth who seemed to be gormless, skinny and a shapeless lump of fat all at once followed him with a permanently worried expression pulling down on his soft, boyish lips.
"No! Drop that, leave that... country filth... ah, alright... now then, stop pulling! Now m'boy, we put the carrot here..."
Winch had lowered the robust arm of the machine down until its spadelike end was level with the ground. The engineer's white glazed eyes were gleaming wildly despite his growing cataracts. He had long learnt to do this barely thinking and vision wasn't so much a problem when you could feel with you hands how everything worked. Things you learnt with time, certainly, and this boy would be lucky if he wasn't lynched before then. Back in my day, he thought, I was a handsome young intellectual with great aspirations, enjoying a world nothing like this poor wretch would. He sneered. Look at jowels under his neck, he thought. Where does the chest begin?
"Now", he croaked. "Bring the noble beast here... see there boy, the carrot is to make sure we have no fuss... no don't handle him like that! Gently, by the legs, slung over the shoulders... yes..."
The noble beast he had referred to was, of course, a goat. Old men of his kind of wrinkled, olive skin always had a fascination with goats. They loved the creatures, in their own mad little way. It was one of the few things they shared with the women of their generation, aside from the way they complement their grumbling with their incessant talking. The poor goat was now being loaded onto the spade end of the arm (they tended to keep some rather fat goats for this sort of thing, feeding them so as to match the weight of a small person) and the old engineer was going about a few final touches, muttering so inaudably that it could be that he had forgotten he was doing this partially for the benefit of his young protege.
"And..... what... Ah!" He had just remembered. Scurrying off to one of the nearby guards, the engineer reached up to his towering head, standing on his toes, and swept the helmet off. Then he put it on the goats head. "A fine soldier of Duke Xarnelf if I ever saw one." He chuckled at his own joke. Even without such a terrible attempt at humour the whole situation was rather ludicrous. There, the goat, munching on a carrot, blank eyes staring into the wonderful bliss of ignorant infinity, wearing a fancy helmet balancing on his little horns. The mouth went up and down, up and--
The rope snapped. Not by design, but by accident. Because some of the final touches to the estimates were yet to be done, the shot wen't far further than it was meant to. Several men cringed and watched helplessly as the little figure bleated into the distance, fading over the target wall at the edge of the trimmed green field and into the forest beyond. The enginereer was irate, throwing his hands in the air and yelling curses at everyone who might be to blame.
"Thats the fourth today!", he finally sighed.
Meanwhile, in Ornaz...
"What? Another herd has disappeared?" the old woodsman frowned deeply at this most troubling news, delivered by a young stick of a boy. Apparently, the boy's family had woken this day to an empty field, where only the night before a humble group of half a dozen goats had idly grazed. The ranger stroked his chin, deep in thought at this dire situation. Suddenly, it dawned upon him who the culprits might be.
"The Arcaeans did it!" he shouted, with a proud, rigid, upthrust finger that would have brought an approving smile to Salerim's lips. The tall boy stood gawking at this wizened forest man, who nodded in reply to his slack-jawed expression.
"I have seen them experiment with goats before, those cruel, heartless northerners... It was so horrible... Oh ye gods! The poor bleating creatures..." He suddenly turned to shake his fist in the direction of Larmebsi, as he called out, "What have they ever done to you?!!"
"Boy, the word is goats. And Arcaea stealing them. Now run along to Idapur now, and spread the words!"
After the farmer's boy had dashed off, utterly confused, the woodsman sank to his knees and began sobbing. The long-repressed memories came back in a sudden flood, wrenching his gut like a dozen butterflies... with claws... and um, bee-stingers. The nightmares would return, of that the old man was certain. Before he succumbed to the pain of the gut-wrenching, the ranger found the strength within him to raise his face to the heavens and implore of all the Aenil who were listening: "Why must ye be so cruel! All they ever wanted was to eat their wee carrots in peace!"
