No one mourns the wicked.

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

[Early evening, Wednesday, August 13th, day 444]
[The woods outside town]

Woke up'is mornin' when the sky wuz th'deep blue'a th'sea bottom, m'breath stranglin'n m'throat, and a pain'n m'head't threatened t'push m'eyes from'eir sockets. I sat up, chokin' 'n clawin't m'throat, wond'rin' dully if'n m'head wuz gonna burst 'fore I strangled, an'en't wuz done. Th'air'n m'lungs pushed out hard, there wuzza flash 'fore m'eyes, an'en th'pain wuz gone. But not b'fore I heard somethin', a weird screamin' noise somewhere deep'n th'mist. Closest thin' t'it've ever heard s'when I came 'pon a mama vixen'n th'woods, she stood up from'er cubs'n fuckin' screamed at me. This sound wuz like'at...but wit'n edge, like th'bone squeal'a teeth grindin'n pain. Dunno what't wuz, but't made me feel sick'n pale'n sweaty, an' I didn't sleep no more after'at.

Seems mosta th'others'n th'Carnival felt somethin' th'same. Lotta folk woke up'n th'night, 'r member a chokin' spell...nobody else mentioned the scream, though. I don't mention it neither, but think mebbe I oughta go talk t'Nanshe soon's I can. Whatever't wuz, don't think't meant anythin' good.

Fer t'day, though, there's work t'be done. Can't b'lieve th'summer's near t'ended. We's headed fer our second winter innis town, an'I think mosta us're resigned t'it. Somma th'folks'a been lettin'eir wagons go, lettin' th'wheels sink inta th'ground, 'r settin'em on blocks. Some folks've built shacks 're rented places in town. Some've taken jobs, too, part time 'r full. Can't blame'em, really, since'ere ain't allat much money comin' in fer the rides 'r games no more. There's a feelin' on th'Lot now't we might never leave, annit makes m'skin itch.

Me, I still keep m'wagon ready t'move, an'm makin' 'nough cash sellin' potions'n charms, so'm doin' okay. Smokey's gettin' fat, though, 'e's spendin' so much time'n pasture. I ain't never learned t'ride'r nothin', so'ere really ain't nothin' for'im t'do. Guess I could rent'im out t'folks in town, but I dunno. In some ways't makes me feel like'm puttin' down roots m'self, an'at jes' makes me twitch.

At least I still got work t'do. Shoulder m'satchel 'n head out inta th'woods. Rain's gone, but'ere's a cool breeze, so I throw on m'jacket, 'n pull boots on 'gainst th'mud 'n wet grass. Th'woods 'n th'river here've been good t'me, at least in terms've finding materials. Roots 'n herbs, moss 'n bone. Miss somma th'stuff I c'n get 'n th'south (Christ, I miss olive oil), but gotta say, gathered a lotta stuff last winter't I can't normally get, annit came in right handy over th'past few months.

...Lord, guess I better start thinkin' 'bout getting th'heaters set back up inna few weeks. Jesus wept.

[OPEN to Reed and Catherine primarily, but others too]

Comments

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

Eyeing a particular twist and flare of bramble and take the cloak off and turn it and wrap it up in itself. It's sturdier than I'd right to expect, but the idea of catching it bothers me nonetheless; I wonder if it'd bleed, more'n all else.

"Glass," as I come through the tangle and for a moment thinking of pulling back into feather and mist and gone, but time of quiet's settled me some, and the voice isn't a misery.

"Well enough," call back, thread through and down a lace of trees towards Syl. "You and yours?"

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

Ferra minute I think she's gonna draw back, but she turns t'me'n calls back, "Well enough. You and yours?"

"Not too bad." Gesture t'wards'er belly. "All come out well, I hope?" Likely so, with Nu watchin' over'er. Ain't known Nu t'lose many babies.

Start walkin' t'wards'er an' stop onna dead woodpecker. "Fuckin' hell." I says, an' sigh. "Y'feel't? 'is mornin'?" Glass ain't got th'sense't Tess has, but she's got a li'l bit ovvan eye t'er. Curious t'see if'n she felt anythin'.

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

Nod to matter of health of me and mine. "Y'feel't? 'is mornin'?" she say, stepping 'round another dead bird. Imagine some of it was the length of holding a breath, but...

Shake my head. "Woke up direct after, near's I can tell," I say dry. The screaming... Well enough she got her breath back, can't blame her for being upset over the matter. Some shock to find quite how quick you can get to your feet woken that way, or how fast your heart goes. "Didn't catch word of it being matter for others 'til I actually spoke to another. What was it?"

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

She shakes'er head, but she felt't, sure's stone. "Woke up direct after, near's I can tell. Didn't catch word of it being matter for others 'til I actually spoke to another. What was it?"

"Fucked if I know," I snort, pickin' th'carcass up. "Y'need feathers? I got 'nough t'stuff a lifetime's pillows." Sigh'n toss th'bird aside. "I dunno what't wuz, I'm jes' sure't ain't good. But'en, what innis town is?" Gotta laugh't some point. "I really ain't sure what happened'is mornin', Plannin' t'go'n talk 'bout't wit' folks later. Meantime, dunno't'ere's much t'do 'bout't 'scept gather's much feathers'n claws's we can."

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

"Fucked if I know," she says, picking up the woodpecker. "Y'need feathers? I got 'nough t'stuff a lifetime's pillows."

"Thinking I'm set," I say, and smiling faint to be imagining what Dorian'd threaten to make of it if he saw aught other than chicken feathers. Some great twist of things, no doubt.

"I dunno what't wuz, I'm jes' sure't ain't good. But'en, what innis town is?" and crack a grin. "I really ain't sure what happened'is mornin', Plannin' t'go'n talk 'bout't wit' folks later. Meantime, dunno't'ere's much t'do 'bout't 'scept gather's much feathers'n claws's we can."

"S'pose," true enough. "You need a hand at claws, or you set for those as well?"