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Post by Blubber-Bun on Aug 10, 2018 3:33:26 GMT -6
Blood is Slicker Than Water Jemin & Beauregard
--- Between events of Chapter V & VI
Jiahar & Culista's Farmstead Late Evening |
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Post by Blubber-Bun on Aug 10, 2018 4:03:33 GMT -6
Jemin
But I'm skin, flint, broke
Making no money, making jokes
A mound of leafy watercress, generously peppered by corn, mesquite beans and goat cheese; topped with spices and something suspiciously similar to agave although his mother had assured him she was on another diet.
Picking absently at the meal, he pretended to be listening to her now; prattling off about their latest endeavors on the farm. Beyond the hospitable smiles of his parent’s beaming faces (said beaming directed not at him, but rather at the young buck), he could gauge how stress lined their aged features - how the corners of their eyes wrinkled in strained cheer. What with the encroaching war, Jemin figured he knew why.
It was not him that they sought to shelter - to keep coddled from stress. He was too far gone for that.
But their grandchild? The grandchild they’d been kept from knowing for thirteen odd years?
Beauregard’s presence at his side - in the middle of a modest room, decorated only by a sparse few shelves and the mats and cushions which they laid on - was simultaneously the most familiar and inconvenient pillar in a whirlwind life; it was not often that Jemin let anyone quite so close for a length longer than a night. Had never quite opened up, either, in the same way, whether he kept some barriers intact or not.
‘Jemin. Aren't you going to eat?’
His father's monotone pulled him from his musings. He shrugged, pushing the clay plate away with a careless flick, sending an inconspicuous goop of green or two off his mat. “Not hungry.”
‘Suit yourself, shortie,’ said his mother in light teasing, poking his rib with a gentle jab of teke. Already, his father had begun shoveling the salad off Jemin’s plate and onto Beauregard's.
‘How do you like windracing, Beauregard? Job treating you well?’ The donkey asked, pausing for his wife to add in ‘at least someone's got a job’ at which point they both stopped to glance poignantly at Jemin.
He clenched his jaw into something resembling a dry smile (‘ha ha’ could be heard beneath his breath), before leaning over to bump his child’s sturdy flank with his hip. The gesture could have been dubbed affectionate, had it not been accompanied by a duplicitous look - a look passed from one prisoner to another. He lowered his voice.
“Alright kid, here's the plan… I shout snake, we both look at that corner - right there - and then you knock over your plate, maybe scream a little and we both make a run for the door."
Jemin - Serora - The Folk
P 1 | WC 421 |
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Post by hey-stardust on Oct 3, 2018 10:49:40 GMT -6
  BEAUREGARD | SERORA | WINDRACER A simple band of gold, wrapped around my soul -
hard forgiving, hard forget.
It felt odd (to say the least) to be sitting amongst the family that she had no idea existed up until a few months ago. Despite assurances that they were indeed related, Beauregard couldn’t help but feel like a stranger in their midst; tentatively waiting for the inevitable ‘gotcha!’, just as she settled in and accepted this new life, and have it promptly taken away from her.
Perched precariously on a single pillow, the unicorn picked quietly at her food; chewing slowly over the lavish meal and keeping her mouth full in the hopes of avoiding answering questions (though to no avail it seemed, as her overtly chipper grandparents demanded to know how life and by some extent, Jemin, was treating her).
She was careful with her words, aware of some invisible line she could be toeing over without knowing, but -- for the most part -- remained honest; gently following along and laughing jovially as they goaded her father and his thorough lack of aspirations.
She was more comfortable around Jemin thanks to his somewhat predictable -- if dickish -- nature, than her grandparents that sat glowing before her, convinced they hid an ulterior motive (unlike him, who she knew almost certainly did). However, a hint of a frown still tugged at her lips when he blatantly slapped their offerings away, though it hiked up quickly into a strained smile as they took the opportunity to pile yet more food onto her plate, with the meal she had nearly polished off growing twice in size once more.
Deep in the back of her mind, Ceres warning echoed in her head, to eat what you were given and be gracious about it; and to be fair, she was grateful, but even then there is only so much food even one of her size can manage.
An ear flicked in Jemin’s direction at the sudden nudge to her side, listening intently to his rashly laid out plan and mulling it over, but, other than that, her eyes did not move from the couple across the table from them.
Perhaps it was indeed time to go.
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Post by Blubber-Bun on Oct 19, 2018 11:31:44 GMT -6
Jemin
But I'm skin, flint, broke
Making no money, making jokes
He had come to expect Beauregard’s silence. She had inherited (or rather, cultivated) the same whittled-sharp tongue, now planted firmly in her cheek, but the rate and frequency with which she used it was sparser than Jemin. He had been babbling from the moment of his birth, as anyone with gray hair could testify. An easy manipulation tool and a foolish vice in equal parts.
But he had come to expect the silence, and he had learned that it spoke volumes, if one took the time to decipher the intention behind the veil. Typically the silence meant annoyance. Sometimes interest. Rarely compliance.
‘You hear so much about those windboards these days - the accidents, the faulty designs every now and then. You’re keeping yourself safe, right sweetie? Board working okay?’
The lack of exasperated eye rolls or immediate protest, no indication of a furrowed brow behind the brim of those glasses, gave him all the permission he needed. Abruptly the mule sprang to his feet, sucking in his breath.
‘By Alya’s wings, Jemin! You’ll get your grimy hooves on my mat - ’
“Snake, snake! Cobra! In the corner - no, other direction! Holy shit, it’s a big one!”
Whilst his parents stuttered and fumbled, scrambling to remove themselves from the immediate but illusioned danger, teke like red wine hastily ushered Beauregard to her feet and, trusting that she was similarly ready to scoot, he slipped out the curtain-draped entrance.
The desert air was cool beneath a dusky sky, sunset pink bruised by starry purple. Behind him came the muffled scrambling within the clay farmstead, parents still yelping in confusion; before him, only the rustle of corn and the quiet hum of crickets. A smile, lopsided, snagged the edge of his mouth - casting his child a sideways glance in the half-light. “And that - that’s how you leave a conversation. Remember it.”
Exhaling a quiet snicker (“did you see their faces?”), the mule continued forth at a sauntering pace along the margin of the crops. It was an impressive array of vegetables; this would be a good harvest, he acknowledged with vague familiarity. He was quiet, for a beat, merely content to listen to the croaking, fading voices and the pleasant whistle of a breeze through stalks, to the steady tapping of his nimble hooves beside the broader ones of Beauregard.
Then there was a click of his tongue, a sudden notion to register. “Damn. That was our place to crash, wasn’t it?” With a nod of his head, he gestured northward, to the trading capital. He faltered. Briefly. Ashamed, perhaps, to have to ditch her elsewhere for another night. “We’re not too far from Osulas. Could find you someone to, ah, to stay with?”
And, had his eyes not been trained on the bespectacled unicorn, maybe he’d have noticed the heavy figure approaching from the brink of the farmland. There was a brisk fury in their step.
Jemin - Serora - Creator
P 1 | WC 489 |
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Post by hey-stardust on Dec 29, 2018 6:33:40 GMT -6
BEAUREGARD | SERORA | WINDRACER A simple band of gold, wrapped around my soul -
hard forgiving, hard forget.
With surprisingly more grace than expected, Beauregard launched herself over the table at Jemin's touch, knees tucked tight to her chest in hopes of doing slightly less damage than he had.
Landing with a heavy thump, she instantly regretted her plan of action as her stomach roiled in protest. With a grimace, she ducked under the drapes and bolted from the homestead.
The evening chill hit her with sudden clarity, and Beau took in a deep breath as she ran; savouring the night air. She slowed once Jemin declared that they were far enough from the inlaws to cool their hooves, and a slight chuff escaped her lips in amusement as he congratulated himself for his ingenious plan; though the slight smirk faded as he stumbled across the significant hitch in their nightly escapade, and she slowed to curl a shock of pink teke around an unripe ear of corn, plucking it delicately from its stalk to roll it gently in her grasp, as though admiring it...
then pegged it squared at her father's head.
"Was this your plan all along then, to get rid of me?" She mused, though not unkindly; it was something she had come to expect, though quietly, the thought still stung that she was so easily amiss, even now.
Before she could even contemplate who might be willing to lend a couch for the night however, something on the horizon caught her eye and she stiffened; lifting the glasses from the bridge of her nose to stare dead ahead.
"It appears we have company..."
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