[h3][b]D[/b]irty Sundries[/h3][u]     [/u]

“You basket-headed bastard,” Bruno quietly swore to himself as he poured another bucket of hot water over his head, “just had to go and get yourself covered in spider guts…”

Since the shepherd’s little escapade with two old dick-measuring has-been soldiers, he had taken it upon himself to investigate the tower’s well. It took some work and tender loving care on the pipes to get the pump working again, along with the help of some caulking and grinding away at the rust, but he was able to conjure up some water after an hour of work. By the time he was done, the spider ichor was already drying and caking to his skin and hair, and he was practically racing to bring buckets of water to the nearest lavatory and get a small fire going to heat up a cauldron. He was scratching the flaking ichor off his skin and combing his fingers through his beard to get as much of the crap off of him as he could. All the while though, he couldn’t help but think back on Solomon and Janus and their incessant kvetching like a pair of old crones. All the bathing thoughts came to him only after the fact, the things that he could’ve said that would have really sent them crying to their mothers -- and to think both of their problems came from the same exact source: their Gods-be-damned pride. Shit, if Bruno had any pride left, then maybe he’d be feeling a little bit worse after his own tirade.

The nord’s scrubbing slowed to a halt, leaving himself to stew not just in the gravy of hot water, soap, dirt, blood, and spider guts he was sitting in, but also his thoughts. As much as he tried to hide it in front of others, he was still hurting. He knew that. He never tried to lie to himself otherwise, and as much as he preferred to hide himself away from the rest of the world in his own little cabin, it was also his greatest source of pain -- but he never let himself go like that, not since he lost them. He tried to rationalize his loss of control by reminding himself that there was a random zombie apocalypse and that he had to leave his home behind and slaughter his entire flock… but that was the way of things, doing what you have to do in order to survive, but Gods, he was so [i]tired.[/i] He was tired of rebuilding and only wanted to keep what he had left. He was tired of meeting new people and getting close to them. He just wanted to live out the rest of his days in boring, peaceful misery.

But then he had to leave his home behind and find himself taking care of a new bundle of idiots. Lone wolf idiots, idiots with death wishes, magical idiots, idiots who can’t keep track of their shoes, idiots who can’t even speak -- idiots he’d inevitably get attached to and end up losing, as par for the course. Then there was him: the idiot who can’t even keep himself together, let alone a ragtag band of misfits. Let alone a family. Perhaps, he realized, he was hurting even more than he thought. He was hoping he’d grow numb to it as time passed, that the pain would dull as the years had gone by -- but instead it festered. It never really dulled; he had just become accustomed to it, he acclimated. He couldn’t even imagine what living without it would even feel like anymore. This was the new normal.

Bruno combed his fingers through his beard and shook off another glob of rehydrated guts onto the floorboards outside the tub. “This is the new normal,” he muttered out loud. He dumped another bucket of hot water over his head, rinsing the rest of the grime from his body.

When he was finally finished, he fetched the clean change of clothes he brought with him. He slipped into his fur shoes and trousers, but between the heat of the bath and the humidity of the air, he continued with his shirt unbuttoned and his towel over his shoulders. The chill air against wet skin felt almost rejuvenating; cold, sure, but the biting sensation about perked him up, kept him awake and primed his mind. He spent more time he normally would’ve in the bath to the point where he lost track of time, but given the mess he made of himself and the mess in his head, he could probably find it within his stone cold heart to forgive himself this one time. As he wandered the gloomy and abandoned halls of the fort, enjoying the feeling of the cool air on his skin and occasionally stealing a sour glance at one of the others from a comfortable distance, he happened upon a remote space near the top of one of the towers.

On one hand he was curious, and on the other, he doubted help would be nearby if he got himself into trouble again -- and he had [i]just[/i] taken a bath. Groaning under his breath and low-key praying that he wouldn’t be walking into more spiders, he opened the door and found himself in a room dimly lit by that baleful moonlight. It looked like a storage space and… he heard heavy breathing. Cautiously turning a corner… he found Bozo. The dog was panting quite happily with a rat the size of his head between his two front paws. Bruno sighed, lifting the anxiety from his shoulders as he gazed upon his oldest living companion.

“Already putting yourself to work, eh? Heh, good dog,” He muttered before affectionately rubbing the animal on the top of its head. He looked his head out the empty window, no pane of glass keeping himself and a steep drop toward his maker. The stars performed their twisted dance around the moon, as if they were a coil of chains keeping it from moving and further across the sky. He wondered if this night would ever end, as by now he expected that the sun’s light ough to be causing a glow off in a distance horizon somewhere, casting some of these stars back into the void, but it seemed as though these stars were here to stay. So too would their light about the ground.

The ground. Bruno looked to the ground, seeing bodies shamble across the countryside. He could see for [i]miles[/i], and that brought an unexpected smile to his face. Knowing Solomon, he might always want someone posted up here and maybe that might be a reason not to tell him, but still, they’d all probably benefit from transforming this room into something less dilapidated. They ought to keep the monsters from within creeping about. It was about time he boarded up that spider burrow.

“Bozo, come with,” he barked, prompting the dog to drop its quarry and follow at Bruno’s heel.

Later, down at the bottom of the stairs where the armory was located and where the bodies of many frostbite spiders lay dead, Bruno stood before them with his shirt on and a satchel of tools and a few planks of wood. The dog was at his side still and looking curiously at the bodies around and into the darkness behind the wall he was meant to board up. Unfamiliarity begets anxiety. Still, Bruno talked to his dog if he thought there was any chance that his voice could bring the animal comfort. Saying sarcastically, “don’t worry, we’ll play fetch with its legs later.”

Setting the supplies down, he got to work on boarding up the wall. He began humming a song to himself when he had nails sticking out of his mouth and whistled when there weren’t. When his hands were full of planks and nails, he’d look to Bozo, knock on the wood, and his dog would come up and fetch Bruno’s hammer for him. “Mmph, good boy,” he’d say, a nail or two sticking out the corner of his lips. Board one, board two.

[i]“Oh! dirty sundries, you make me house cold,
rusty spanners w’ worn wood peel,
woolen booties, holes in the heel,
oh dirty sundries, filthy reminders of olde.

“Oh! dirty sundries, you make me house a catacomb
of me arts n’ wares be dull,
shadow of longing, wit’out brain be ye a skull;
oh dirty sundries, you make me house home.”[/i]