Scars are tattoos with better stories.

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

The body is but a pair of pincers set over a bellows and a stew pan and the whole fixed upon stilts.
- Samuel Butler

You're sick of hangin' around and you'd like to travel;
Get tired of travelin' and you want to settle down.
I guess they can't revoke your soul for tryin',
Get out of the door and light out and look all around.

Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me;
Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me
What a long, strange trip it's been.
- 'Truckin'', The Grateful Dead

January 6th, early evening

I walk along the southern road to Excolo, the grey halflight of a January day fading into a sullen sort of blackness. There is little charm in this weather, road hard packed with ice. As I get closer to the town I find the snow has been sprinkled with salt and grit, but to no great effect. I flip up the collar of my coat as if I need to shield myself against the cold.

This is a new body. I felt the desire for it, something with no history worked into its flesh. And I am not interested tonight in a body that encourages sexual desire; I have had enough of those for now. This body is a fine work of art, but it is not beautiful, skin slouching into wrinkles except where it is stretched tight across high flat cheekbones, hands knotted, greying hair. The body of a man of perhaps sixty, faint traces of age spots on his hands but as yet no tremor to them. A man who is sure of his step. A face that is lived in but gives little away, and eyes like bright sparks in a skull. Full small lips to take the edge off that steady cold gaze, to make it show the possibiity of kindness. Yes, it will serve.

I walk into town and find the tavern, hefting my bag as if it has some weight. When I set it down I sigh softly, as if relieved, and I roll my neck and click it.

"Hail friend," I say to the barman easily, "a toddy do you have to ease my bruised bones on this cold night?"

When the rum comes it steams, and I hold it in my mouth and let my cheeks splotch a grateful pale pink on the act of swallowing.

[OPEN]

Comments

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

"And what, mistress, would you call the difference between sense and wisdom? Much wisdom is sense worn in, like a shoe, by time, think you not?" and that's a question of some interest, worth an answer.

"I think," I say, measuring out those I know, "wisdom's sense worn in, but with some mind for others, even if there's no particular care for them..." Glance to the Shuck again, and show my teeth quick and dry afore looking back to the travelling man. "Think that's less common in folk than it might be, and rare enough to find in hound, any chance of his to finding you aside."

Lays out how he came t'know the Shuck in pattern and voice minds me of old words in times and places past. "Or perhaps as you say it is sense rather than wisdom, but in any case I'll drink to his safe return. Will you join me, mistress?" and some startlement crosses my face at that, but think I keep the edge away and down.

"Say rather t'your luck in finding him again," I say, considering him thoughtful, and weighing this out. Guess he may be knows something of an oddity to his dog, but there's sure enough enough of those these nights. "'m Glass Beddau, and missed your name?"

[gaueko-erebus.livejournal.com]

I hear the wolf-girl in the kitchen, talking to someone about stews and soups. Beef stew. Hopefully the cook here's better than the one at the damned inn. Not that any chef can match the taste of bloody meat ripped living from the bone, but it'll do. In the meantime, Sugaar is debating semantics with Glass. "And what, mistress, would you call the difference between sense and wisdom? Much wisdom is sense worn in, like a shoe, by time, think you not? Rollo I raised from a pup. Largest of his litter. I lost him, or he lost me, on the road, and sorrow I made, for travelling as I do I have not many constants save the rising and setting of the sun. But as I came to town he found me again, was that not wise of him?"

I'm going to need more whisky if that keeps going, and my damned bowl is empty. I press my paw on the rim of the bowl so that it rattles on the floor. Maybe the bartender will get the hint.

"Or perhaps as you say it is sense rather than wisdom, but in any case I'll drink to his safe return. Will you join me, mistress?"

Oh, this should be good. I lick the last drops of water from my whiskers and look at Glass, grinning.

"Say rather t'your luck in finding him again." she says, looking at me. And hell, I'll drink to that too, if the goddamn bartender would get off his ass. There are definite disadvantages to this form. "'m Glass Beddau, and missed your name?"

I rattle the bowl again. I swear, if he makes me stand up and drop it on the bar, I'm going to bite him.

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

"wisdom's sense worn in, but with some mind for others, even if there's no particular care for them..."

"That's interesting, mistress," I say. "But what of wisdom not of man but of rock or tree or heath? Or would you say that is sense, not wisdom? Is wisdom, then, Man's alone?" I look at her curiously and run my finger across the top of my glass.

Gaueko rattles his bowl.

"Thirsty dog," I comment, and I wave a beckoning hand at the bartender.

Glass accepts my invitation and gives her name.

"Uri, Mistress Beddau, my name is Uri, and pleased I am to make your acquaintance," I say, bowing my head in a quick dip. "No family name have I, though I have had different titles on the road over the years I have walked it - Uri of the Bow, and Uri-by-Night, and Uri of the Wool Fells, and now I am Uri the Peddlar," I say, tapping the pack on the floor beside me, "as I peddle my wares from place to place. And you, Mistress Beddau, are you employed, or do you keep house?"

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

Matter of wisdom being man's alone, and weigh that out. "I'd say wisdom's a thing comes and carried with thought," I say, "so call it only found in those can think. If there's a sense of others in what stands silent or grows..." Shrug at that. "Never took it to care particular much over my not calling it wisdom." Faint thin smile at that, as fine enough the growth that comes green and eternal through sunrise and sunset, but it's hardly after worrying after the words I set to it. "See a patience to it, may be, or peace to be found there, and sure enough marking of the way the world may lie out... but that's a matter different, to my mind."

Rattle on the floor and "Thirsty dog," and I murmur agreement.

"May be the whiskey's a little much for his temper," I say thoughtful, glancing down at him. "Glastwr dyfradwy, hound?" Scraggled thing that he is compared t'his usual self... watered milk might fit him now, though I doubt it'd suit.

"Uri, Mistress Beddau, my name is Uri, and pleased I am to make your acquaintance," and make acknowledgment, listening as he lays out name and names and name again, common enough way of things these days. "And you, Mistress Beddau, are you employed, or do you keep house?"

"I keep house now," I say, smiling faint, and spit and staunchweed that's something else I need address. "My husband came to town and works now in the Tavern," tapping the bar once. "And you, Uri, what're you peddling in Excolo, or should I leave that matter until market Sunday?"

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

"See a patience to it, may be, or peace to be found there, and sure enough marking of the way the world may lie out... but that's a matter different, to my mind."

"Perhaps, Mistress Beddau, we are trying to give name to that which can't be named," I say lightly as I finish my drink. "Another for you?" I say to her, and I gesture to the barman. "One for me, and my dog, and my new friend if she will have one," I say.

"My husband came to town and works now in the Tavern. And you, Uri, what're you peddling in Excolo, or should I leave that matter until market Sunday?"

"There is a market? That is excellent news," I say and smile. "But show you what I sell I will," I say, hefting my pack up onto the table. "Have you dreams, mistress? Of course you do. Every man and woman does. Dogs too," I say, patting Gaueko. "We dream, and we wish." I open the pack and take out a selection of small bottles, glass of different colours and each bottle a different shape.

"These are dreams," I say, "or wishes. I have glamours to make an old woman look like a girl for a day, and I have dreams that can be supped so that a dull afternoon passes in a golden warmth of apple orchards. All gentle magics, truly, none lasting more than dusk to dawn or dawn to dusk."

[melania-lowell.livejournal.com]

A bowl rattles on the floor, Uri calls for more drinks which I meant to grab. Glancing in the window to the kitchen, I see Cookie ladling the stew into bowls. I know its what I ordered just from the smell alone and my stomach growls. Yeah. Drinks. "I got 'em Thomas," I say tossing a reassuring smile at him.

"These are dreams," I say, "or wishes. I have glamours to make an old woman look like a girl for a day, and I have dreams that can be supped so that a dull afternoon passes in a golden warmth of apple orchards.

Loading everything on a tray,I hold back an amused snort when I hear that. Wonder if he's got something that would unwolf me? Wonder if I'd miss it. I move around the bar handing Glass her drink first and set a bowl next to her, just in case. "I hope beef stew is okay," I say setting Uris' bowl, bread and drink on the table. My head tilts at the glimmer of colors coming from the bag on the old mans lap. "What are those?" I ask, setting two bowls on the floor. Stew with a bone and hunk of bread and a drink of mostly whiskey with a splash of water this time. I hope he chokes.

[gaueko-erebus.livejournal.com]

Sugaar introduces this dogsbody as "Uri", calls himself a peddler. He looks the part, roadworn and bent-backed. He supports my call for a new bowl of whisky, though Glass snidely asks if I'd prefer milk. You've got your mother's sense of humour, Glass. I'm sure that pretty boy of yours would be most put out if I drooled on your shoes.

Glass is sharing more of her history than I'd expect, saying that she's settled and her husband works here. Sugaar in turn tells her what he is selling; a sackful of dreams and wishes. I flick my ears towards him, wondering if he remembers when I walked the roads as an old man, a sack of dreams over my shoulder. I wonder. But it doesn't really matter.

The wolf girl comes back in and...well, she's not entirely an idiot. Or maybe the chef's just good. Whatever the case, the bowl of "water" is now almost entirely whisky, strong enough to sting my nose, and the stew has a large, meaty bone jutting from it and a thick chunk of bread sopping up the gravy. I thump my tail on the floor and dig in, keeping one ear turned towards Glass and Sugaar's conversation. This should prove interesting.

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

"Perhaps, Mistress Beddau, we are trying to give name to that which can't be named," and possible enough; sure not the first time the Tavern leads to such talk. "Another for you? One for me, and my dog, and my new friend if she will have one."

"I've still mine, but my thanks; I'll get the next round," I say, looking down at my glass and watching the pale liquid swim in dark oiled eddies, think of corpses in summer heat. Bloody hell, Shuck...

"There is a market? That is excellent news," and a smile, and "But show you what I sell I will. Have you dreams, mistress? Of course you do," and patter and shine, and I push aside small startlement as he weaves words like smoke around small phylatories of dreams.

Lannie comes back, setting down drinks and bowls, catching sight of the glistering glass. "What are those?" and I push aside a faint thought of seeing things and then that lost in white like a winter sky as I feel my throat closing, and shake my head. "Dreams from can to can't," I say to Lannie in answer once I've my breath back. "Fine enough, I'm sure."

If I'd known of Azrael afore I'd met him, heard the sounding toll of his voice in words past any tongue and seen the light of his speaking, then maybe that, but I've memory of it still so clear I swear I could touch it. And aside that...

...spit and staunchweed, 've I no dreams, then?

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

I taste the stew that Melania puts in front of me. It is good, as these things go.

"Lovely my dear it is, and you must compliment your cook," I say.

"Dreams from can to can't. Fine enough, I'm sure."

"Mistress Beddau," I say with a smile, "sounds as if she has no time for such pretty bubbles as these. Dreams they are, miss," I say to Melania. "Some dreams, some wishes, all of them short and sweet as a bright day in winter." I smile. "Drink this," I say, lifting a bright red bottle, "if you have a long afternoon of washing tiles ahead, and you will find the hours pass with the brightest daydream of a sunny seashore. Or take this," I say, lifting a blue bottle, "if you had always wondered what it would be like to be a teenager again, and for a span of six hours you will pass as one, a glamour passing over the eyes of those who see you. Though you are young enough, perhaps, for that to not appeal." I smile at her. "What do you dream of, mistresses?" I ask them both. "Perhaps I have a bottle for it."