Any given Sunday – 14 Eleint (15 Sept.) – Taffeta / Sunday
Sept 28, 2019 17:35:22 GMT
andycd, Grimes, and 1 more like this
Post by Malri 'Taffeta' Thistletop on Sept 28, 2019 17:35:22 GMT
1496 DR, 14 Eleint
The sun is lately down, the moon not yet up, and a halfling is creeping quietly through the tall grass towards a huge willow tree. This isn't Taffeta's first time coming to the place she has started thinking of as 'Big Willow' but it's her first time approaching from this side, and in the low dusk light, so she moves slowly and carefully. Just beyond these bushes she thinks, parting some branches - not quite as silently as she would have liked. Lack of sleep is getting to her.
Through the leaves she can just make out... the sudden, startling noise of something behind her causes her to whirl about, crossbow ready.
eLk lands lightly on the forest floor, folding his wings in along his flanks and shaking twigs and burs out of his mane. He tilts his giant head to one side and looks down quizzically at the halfling and the weapon clutched in her hands.
Taffeta relaxes for a moment but then catches herself. Is it really Sunday's companion? Didn't Daisy say he'd been killed? Neither lowering the crossbow further than she already has, nor raising it back to its previous position, she whispers: "Is Sunday home?"
eLk takes a step towards Taffeta, sturdy hooves throwing up small puffs of dust and dried leaves. He slowly lowers his head and sniffs the air around the halfling. Seemingly satisfied, he gives a low, gentle snort and nods towards the hollow, walking past Taffeta as he does so and down into the glade. She follows at a distance, still alert, still looking all around her as she goes.
There in the middle of Willow Glade, Taffeta can make out the dark shapes of Sunday's hand-made oven and a rough wooden structure from which hangs her familiar bark-whittled armour. Her giant red boots are haphazardly slung to one side. eLk, having taken a long drink from the stream bordering the glade, has flopped down into the tall grass at the water’s edge and curled his wings around his head. A number of bottles, flasks, and vessels - some empty, some full - are lying on the ground around him. But no Sunday. After waiting a moment, Taffeta walks softly on toward the trunk of the willow to peer up into the branches.
As Taffeta approaches the giant tree, a split begins to appear right at the base of the trunk where it meets the ground - no, less a split; more a folding back of the bark. As the wood ripples aside to form an aperture six feet high and two feet across, Sunday steps briskly through, unarmed and unarmoured - except for a giant sword strapped to her back, the hilt cloth-wrapped and protruding over her right shoulder.
"Oh!" exclaims the halfling, stepping back a little.
“Evening, Malri.” Sunday’s tone is brusque, as she moves down into the glade and unslings a couple of empty bags from her left shoulder. “I was just over at Granny’s Cottage. You know, we really need a new name for that place. Anyway, eLk told me you were approaching, creeping through the trees. What do you want?” She packs away the bags into a hollowed-out recess in the mound and begins tidying away some loose odds and ends strewn across the glade.
"I came to see how you’re doing," says Taffeta, and then, after a breath: "Going to ask you questions first, though."
“Still this rigmarole?” Sunday says, half to herself, her back to Taffeta. “Ask away, then.”
“When did you first meet Paw?”
“Don’t remember. I was away when she arrived in Kantas. Some time during the Games, probably.” Sunday turns from where she’s been tidying and, not meeting Taffeta’s gaze, starts to walk in the direction of eLk and the far side of the glade.
Taffeta breathes out heavily and then tries again. “What did you and Nerry do with potatoes?”
Sunday doesn’t answer and continues walking, still headed towards eLk, but on a collision course with Taffeta’s left-hand side. The smaller woman steps nimbly aside, keeping distance between them, and watches her pass.
Sunday reaches her dozing companion and picks up two of the flasks. Although it’s growing dark now and the moon is still yet to show itself, the liquids inside the flasks seem to gleam with an internal, radiant light of their own. Sunday throws one to Taffeta, uncorks the other, and pours its shining contents down her throat. Upending the bottle to catch the last dregs on her outstretched tongue, Sunday drops the empty container to the ground and finally meets Taffeta’s eyes with a flat, cold stare.
“That’s holy water. If you didn’t know, real fiends can’t exactly drink that stuff. I’ve been making these,” the tiefling gestures to the dozens of flasks at her feet, “for the last month or so. Using silver from wherever I can find it. Getting ready with the others for whatever’s coming.” Sunday folds her pale, lilac-skinned arms across her chest. “Now, any more questions? Or would you just prefer to wait and see if I grow hooves and starting stealing blue-eyed babies from their cribs?”
Taffeta's instinct is to turn and leave, but she takes a breath. If this is Sunday, then she's upset and angry, and if that's so, Taffeta shouldn't just go off in a huff and leave her. But what if it isn't her? This person can't remember things that Sunday ought to, she's being cold and hostile, and now she's swigging water as if it proves something, as if Taffeta can tell the difference between holy water and the normal stuff. Yes, it feels like Sunday. This would be unusual behaviour for her, but not all that unusual - and, from what Daisy said the other day, it wouldn't be surprising for Sunday to be in a state. But hadn't Sunday herself said that rakshasas are great manipulators and deceivers? Can she trust her feeling that this is really her friend? Wouldn't this sort of behaviour be just the way to distract Taffeta from the fact that this person can't answer her questions right? If this were really Sunday, wouldn't she patiently answer as many questions as Taffeta needs so she can feel safe? ... No, maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she'd respond just like this.
The halfling sighs and sits down heavily on a big stone, leaving the flask untouched on the grass, watching the pale face.
After a few moments’ silence, Sunday repeats her question. “Well? Any more questions or can I turn in for the night? I need to be up early tomorrow, and if you don’t need anything from me…”
"I'm glad to see Elk's okay," Taffeta says. “I heard what happened.”
A muscle twitches in Sunday’s cheek. “Yer, he’s fine now.”
“And how are you?”
“Fine. Tired. You?”
Taffeta laughs briefly. “Still terrible, but better than I was. Did you hear a friend of yours came to see me?”
“Oh?”
Taffeta pauses. Whoever it is she’s looking at, it seems like she doesn’t want to talk. But if it’s Sunday, then she seems like she needs to. And if it isn’t, then Taffeta doesn’t care what she wants. So she ploughs on.
“He didn’t tell you? Maybe he was ashamed of how he spoke to me. He should be, the self-righteous pr–” She stops herself, remembering Sunday’s soft spot for Varis. And remembering that, if this isn’t Sunday, she probably shouldn’t reveal more than she needs to about the strained relationships within the little group. “Anyway, he said some things that stuck in my head. About… the situation. And who might be in danger.”
“I assume you’re talking about Grandmaster Nailo.” Sunday replies, saying Varis’ title with an odd tone. “He said he came to talk to you, but that it ended badly. So what’s finally stuck with you?”
“He said it won’t just come after me and – and people close to me,” says Taffeta. If there’s even the slightest chance that her hunter doesn’t know she has a family, she must keep it that way – if that’s who she’s talking to. “He said if it can’t find me, it could hurt – torture – anyone I know, neighbours, strangers in town… Do you think that’s true?”
As Taffeta is speaking, Sunday’s expression slowly transitions from guarded and cold through incredulity to bitter amusement.
“Do I think that’s true? Do… Do I think…” Sunday exhales sharply. “Ha! Yes, Taffeta, I do think that could be true. I think that’s precisely what I’ve been warning you of since the moment you told me about Khingo. I think that’s exactly what people have been working to prevent these last two months. You know what, though? I’m glad it’s finally sunk in. I’m glad you realise what it could do to you and those around you. Maybe now you’ll stop treating your friends like enemies.”
Taffeta looks stunned. "W- what?" she stammers after a moment. "What are you talking about? You - you never said that! You said it would come for me, for my fami-" As this word starts to leave her mouth, Taffeta feels a shudder of fear. In the shock of the moment, she's let her guard down. And this is another thing that doesn't add up. Sunday hasn't mentioned any danger to other people before, she's sure of it. And if this person is saying different… She falls silent and very still, waiting.
“I did warn you, Taffeta. When you first came here to tell me about Khingo. But, since then, you’ve not been listening to me - to anyone. Why did you even seek me out today?”
"I came to check my friend is okay," says Taffeta, slowly standing up, crossbow lowered but ready. "But at the moment I'm not sure she's even here."
Sunday and Taffeta stare at each other for a long moment. Eventually, Sunday’s shoulders slump and she seems to deflate.
“Me neither.” She says plainly. “Me neither.”
"Sunday… please… if it's you, just tell me something that devil wouldn't know. Just one thing. I hate this. I just want to talk to my friend."
“It’s getting late. You should probably go back to your family They need you.” Sunday crosses the glade and climbs the mound to stand next to the trunk of the giant willow tree, laying her hand on the rough bark. “I can speed up your journey and put you on the edge of the forest. If you still trust me.”
"I still trust Sunday," says Taffeta sadly. "I just wish I could be sure you're her." And she steps slowly backwards, leaving the peaceful clearing the way she came.
Sunday watches her leave, a look of sorrow and disappointment etched across her face. She descends into the glade and walks over to eLk, prodding him awake with her toe.
“I assume you heard all that. Can you go and make sur-”
Of course.
eLk unfurls his leafy wings and takes off high into the sky, gliding slowly and silently in the direction of the departing halfling.
(Title and co-writing: Sunday)
The sun is lately down, the moon not yet up, and a halfling is creeping quietly through the tall grass towards a huge willow tree. This isn't Taffeta's first time coming to the place she has started thinking of as 'Big Willow' but it's her first time approaching from this side, and in the low dusk light, so she moves slowly and carefully. Just beyond these bushes she thinks, parting some branches - not quite as silently as she would have liked. Lack of sleep is getting to her.
Through the leaves she can just make out... the sudden, startling noise of something behind her causes her to whirl about, crossbow ready.
eLk lands lightly on the forest floor, folding his wings in along his flanks and shaking twigs and burs out of his mane. He tilts his giant head to one side and looks down quizzically at the halfling and the weapon clutched in her hands.
Taffeta relaxes for a moment but then catches herself. Is it really Sunday's companion? Didn't Daisy say he'd been killed? Neither lowering the crossbow further than she already has, nor raising it back to its previous position, she whispers: "Is Sunday home?"
eLk takes a step towards Taffeta, sturdy hooves throwing up small puffs of dust and dried leaves. He slowly lowers his head and sniffs the air around the halfling. Seemingly satisfied, he gives a low, gentle snort and nods towards the hollow, walking past Taffeta as he does so and down into the glade. She follows at a distance, still alert, still looking all around her as she goes.
There in the middle of Willow Glade, Taffeta can make out the dark shapes of Sunday's hand-made oven and a rough wooden structure from which hangs her familiar bark-whittled armour. Her giant red boots are haphazardly slung to one side. eLk, having taken a long drink from the stream bordering the glade, has flopped down into the tall grass at the water’s edge and curled his wings around his head. A number of bottles, flasks, and vessels - some empty, some full - are lying on the ground around him. But no Sunday. After waiting a moment, Taffeta walks softly on toward the trunk of the willow to peer up into the branches.
As Taffeta approaches the giant tree, a split begins to appear right at the base of the trunk where it meets the ground - no, less a split; more a folding back of the bark. As the wood ripples aside to form an aperture six feet high and two feet across, Sunday steps briskly through, unarmed and unarmoured - except for a giant sword strapped to her back, the hilt cloth-wrapped and protruding over her right shoulder.
"Oh!" exclaims the halfling, stepping back a little.
“Evening, Malri.” Sunday’s tone is brusque, as she moves down into the glade and unslings a couple of empty bags from her left shoulder. “I was just over at Granny’s Cottage. You know, we really need a new name for that place. Anyway, eLk told me you were approaching, creeping through the trees. What do you want?” She packs away the bags into a hollowed-out recess in the mound and begins tidying away some loose odds and ends strewn across the glade.
"I came to see how you’re doing," says Taffeta, and then, after a breath: "Going to ask you questions first, though."
“Still this rigmarole?” Sunday says, half to herself, her back to Taffeta. “Ask away, then.”
“When did you first meet Paw?”
“Don’t remember. I was away when she arrived in Kantas. Some time during the Games, probably.” Sunday turns from where she’s been tidying and, not meeting Taffeta’s gaze, starts to walk in the direction of eLk and the far side of the glade.
Taffeta breathes out heavily and then tries again. “What did you and Nerry do with potatoes?”
Sunday doesn’t answer and continues walking, still headed towards eLk, but on a collision course with Taffeta’s left-hand side. The smaller woman steps nimbly aside, keeping distance between them, and watches her pass.
Sunday reaches her dozing companion and picks up two of the flasks. Although it’s growing dark now and the moon is still yet to show itself, the liquids inside the flasks seem to gleam with an internal, radiant light of their own. Sunday throws one to Taffeta, uncorks the other, and pours its shining contents down her throat. Upending the bottle to catch the last dregs on her outstretched tongue, Sunday drops the empty container to the ground and finally meets Taffeta’s eyes with a flat, cold stare.
“That’s holy water. If you didn’t know, real fiends can’t exactly drink that stuff. I’ve been making these,” the tiefling gestures to the dozens of flasks at her feet, “for the last month or so. Using silver from wherever I can find it. Getting ready with the others for whatever’s coming.” Sunday folds her pale, lilac-skinned arms across her chest. “Now, any more questions? Or would you just prefer to wait and see if I grow hooves and starting stealing blue-eyed babies from their cribs?”
Taffeta's instinct is to turn and leave, but she takes a breath. If this is Sunday, then she's upset and angry, and if that's so, Taffeta shouldn't just go off in a huff and leave her. But what if it isn't her? This person can't remember things that Sunday ought to, she's being cold and hostile, and now she's swigging water as if it proves something, as if Taffeta can tell the difference between holy water and the normal stuff. Yes, it feels like Sunday. This would be unusual behaviour for her, but not all that unusual - and, from what Daisy said the other day, it wouldn't be surprising for Sunday to be in a state. But hadn't Sunday herself said that rakshasas are great manipulators and deceivers? Can she trust her feeling that this is really her friend? Wouldn't this sort of behaviour be just the way to distract Taffeta from the fact that this person can't answer her questions right? If this were really Sunday, wouldn't she patiently answer as many questions as Taffeta needs so she can feel safe? ... No, maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she'd respond just like this.
The halfling sighs and sits down heavily on a big stone, leaving the flask untouched on the grass, watching the pale face.
After a few moments’ silence, Sunday repeats her question. “Well? Any more questions or can I turn in for the night? I need to be up early tomorrow, and if you don’t need anything from me…”
"I'm glad to see Elk's okay," Taffeta says. “I heard what happened.”
A muscle twitches in Sunday’s cheek. “Yer, he’s fine now.”
“And how are you?”
“Fine. Tired. You?”
Taffeta laughs briefly. “Still terrible, but better than I was. Did you hear a friend of yours came to see me?”
“Oh?”
Taffeta pauses. Whoever it is she’s looking at, it seems like she doesn’t want to talk. But if it’s Sunday, then she seems like she needs to. And if it isn’t, then Taffeta doesn’t care what she wants. So she ploughs on.
“He didn’t tell you? Maybe he was ashamed of how he spoke to me. He should be, the self-righteous pr–” She stops herself, remembering Sunday’s soft spot for Varis. And remembering that, if this isn’t Sunday, she probably shouldn’t reveal more than she needs to about the strained relationships within the little group. “Anyway, he said some things that stuck in my head. About… the situation. And who might be in danger.”
“I assume you’re talking about Grandmaster Nailo.” Sunday replies, saying Varis’ title with an odd tone. “He said he came to talk to you, but that it ended badly. So what’s finally stuck with you?”
“He said it won’t just come after me and – and people close to me,” says Taffeta. If there’s even the slightest chance that her hunter doesn’t know she has a family, she must keep it that way – if that’s who she’s talking to. “He said if it can’t find me, it could hurt – torture – anyone I know, neighbours, strangers in town… Do you think that’s true?”
As Taffeta is speaking, Sunday’s expression slowly transitions from guarded and cold through incredulity to bitter amusement.
“Do I think that’s true? Do… Do I think…” Sunday exhales sharply. “Ha! Yes, Taffeta, I do think that could be true. I think that’s precisely what I’ve been warning you of since the moment you told me about Khingo. I think that’s exactly what people have been working to prevent these last two months. You know what, though? I’m glad it’s finally sunk in. I’m glad you realise what it could do to you and those around you. Maybe now you’ll stop treating your friends like enemies.”
Taffeta looks stunned. "W- what?" she stammers after a moment. "What are you talking about? You - you never said that! You said it would come for me, for my fami-" As this word starts to leave her mouth, Taffeta feels a shudder of fear. In the shock of the moment, she's let her guard down. And this is another thing that doesn't add up. Sunday hasn't mentioned any danger to other people before, she's sure of it. And if this person is saying different… She falls silent and very still, waiting.
“I did warn you, Taffeta. When you first came here to tell me about Khingo. But, since then, you’ve not been listening to me - to anyone. Why did you even seek me out today?”
"I came to check my friend is okay," says Taffeta, slowly standing up, crossbow lowered but ready. "But at the moment I'm not sure she's even here."
Sunday and Taffeta stare at each other for a long moment. Eventually, Sunday’s shoulders slump and she seems to deflate.
“Me neither.” She says plainly. “Me neither.”
"Sunday… please… if it's you, just tell me something that devil wouldn't know. Just one thing. I hate this. I just want to talk to my friend."
“It’s getting late. You should probably go back to your family They need you.” Sunday crosses the glade and climbs the mound to stand next to the trunk of the giant willow tree, laying her hand on the rough bark. “I can speed up your journey and put you on the edge of the forest. If you still trust me.”
"I still trust Sunday," says Taffeta sadly. "I just wish I could be sure you're her." And she steps slowly backwards, leaving the peaceful clearing the way she came.
Sunday watches her leave, a look of sorrow and disappointment etched across her face. She descends into the glade and walks over to eLk, prodding him awake with her toe.
“I assume you heard all that. Can you go and make sur-”
Of course.
eLk unfurls his leafy wings and takes off high into the sky, gliding slowly and silently in the direction of the departing halfling.
(Title and co-writing: Sunday)