Archivist of Terralux
Post by Engel on Sept 22, 2008 0:42:22 GMT
Consider the nature of the thing. That was what an old, rough-scarred swordmaster had said to Balder, what seemed like a lifetime ago these days. His tutors had seldom dared to try to manage his temper, even when he was a kit, wary of falling on the wrong side of his father. But the battleworn old wildcat had seen too much steel and spilled too much blood to fear the squalling of a warlord's brat, and had, after a particularly impressive fit of ire on the young fox's part, given his head a smack with a scabbarded blade. Then, while Balder was still doubled on the ground, clutching the grass in fear that he might fall off the face of the spinning, wobbling earth, the tutor had roughly grabbed his muzzle in a broad, callused paw and spoken to him with jarring calmness.
"/Look to the essence of a thing, whether it be a point of doctrine, of practice, or of interpretation/" he had said, and Balder, half-concussed as he was, had still been aware enough to remember the Latin that the words were spoken in. Nevertheless, the tutor repeated them for him in German, then went on, eyes boring into his intently. "Until you can think calmly upon what angers you, you will remain a child."
Balder looks down at the top of the desk he seldom uses, and reflects that what is upsetting him is nothing more than parchment and ink. That, at least, makes him feel a little better. It is not family. It is not acquaintances. It is a piece of parchment that, at one point in the past, was written upon by his sister. That is its nature.
What it implies . . . ? He sighs, rolling the missive carelessly and tucking it into his belt. He will consider that in a little while. Once he's had a drink.
He steps out the door of the infirmary into the cooling evening air, releasing a slow breath. This is the weather he likes -- chill and damp at the edges, just enough to whet the smell of woodsmoke. He considers trying to find Engel; it wouldn't be hard to do so. She's been working on a big old stack of histories she'd come into possession of sometime last winter, chronicling and compiling and translating a scattered smattering of English and Latin and German and scouring for translators for a few other tongues she doesn't personally speak. She'd been happily absorbed in the hobby for some months, but since news of Stoakly's death she'd moved the entire undertaking to a swept-clear corner of the now usually-cold forge building. She comes out for meals, and a few times otherwise, grimy with soot and ink. She smiles and waves away gestures of concern with tittering laughter and polite tsking.
He decides to get a drink first, enough to embolden himself, and then track her down with what remains of the bottle. Engel is too much of a lady to ever inebriate herself in public, or even seek it out. But he has a feeling that it is the sort of thing she needs at this point.
He pushes open the door to the apothecary. The tavern has local brews, and fine ones, but Balder wants something foreign. He wants something sharp as the smoke on the air: a good old brandy, a heady amber-pale akvavit, a schnapps as airy-sweet as it is devastating. He wants something with the holy power to exorcise ghosts and demons. He'll be able to look at new troubles then, and not a second sooner.
"/Look to the essence of a thing, whether it be a point of doctrine, of practice, or of interpretation/" he had said, and Balder, half-concussed as he was, had still been aware enough to remember the Latin that the words were spoken in. Nevertheless, the tutor repeated them for him in German, then went on, eyes boring into his intently. "Until you can think calmly upon what angers you, you will remain a child."
Balder looks down at the top of the desk he seldom uses, and reflects that what is upsetting him is nothing more than parchment and ink. That, at least, makes him feel a little better. It is not family. It is not acquaintances. It is a piece of parchment that, at one point in the past, was written upon by his sister. That is its nature.
What it implies . . . ? He sighs, rolling the missive carelessly and tucking it into his belt. He will consider that in a little while. Once he's had a drink.
He steps out the door of the infirmary into the cooling evening air, releasing a slow breath. This is the weather he likes -- chill and damp at the edges, just enough to whet the smell of woodsmoke. He considers trying to find Engel; it wouldn't be hard to do so. She's been working on a big old stack of histories she'd come into possession of sometime last winter, chronicling and compiling and translating a scattered smattering of English and Latin and German and scouring for translators for a few other tongues she doesn't personally speak. She'd been happily absorbed in the hobby for some months, but since news of Stoakly's death she'd moved the entire undertaking to a swept-clear corner of the now usually-cold forge building. She comes out for meals, and a few times otherwise, grimy with soot and ink. She smiles and waves away gestures of concern with tittering laughter and polite tsking.
He decides to get a drink first, enough to embolden himself, and then track her down with what remains of the bottle. Engel is too much of a lady to ever inebriate herself in public, or even seek it out. But he has a feeling that it is the sort of thing she needs at this point.
He pushes open the door to the apothecary. The tavern has local brews, and fine ones, but Balder wants something foreign. He wants something sharp as the smoke on the air: a good old brandy, a heady amber-pale akvavit, a schnapps as airy-sweet as it is devastating. He wants something with the holy power to exorcise ghosts and demons. He'll be able to look at new troubles then, and not a second sooner.
