ClosetMonster

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

In the grand scheme of things, the fall of a single human means so very little. The winds moved sands and the sands covered her tracks, until the signs of her passing were but a moment's memory in time lost. The camp from which she'd come fell into disarray at her leaving and horsemen went in search of her. Loved ones wept and the women put ash mixed with fat upon their faces, in their hair in preparation. That she had chosen to leave was her way and even as they searched, they did not expect to find anything.

And so the river of moments and hours passed on until the camp had been gone, the jackal gone as well. Heat and cold twisted around one another and then around the great rock, half burying the woman's now deserted body and doing what the jackal did not.

His name was Zahi Akeem Gabir Hakim Amjad and he was a prince of his people. He carried the weight of his lands and as he crossed the sands on the precious Anat, her golden body streaming under the sky, he felt that given all that had happened, to carry the burden of his legacy and to let it die and be lost would not be a tragedy his father may have thought it to be. Not when such burdens were tainted by the hands of evil.

He had bled along her side and his blood crackled when it dried so that much of it had come off of her hide. This was a good thing, for she was too bright a star to be so covered in her master's blood. The wound had eventually been staunched yet to move overly much and he would no doubt have opened the cut in his belly once more. Still, they went on, he blindly and she with the wisdom of only the most beloved, until the sun was so high as to make the heavens white and pure, and then she stopped for she had brought him to some place which was cool and in the shade. He crawled off of her side and found himself in the mouth of a cavern. As he leaned against her shoulder, he drew out the water skin at her withers and letting go his side, he clasped his hands and offered her water in the inefficient bowl he had created for her. She drank as delicately as she did all, her velvet lips on his palms, and then she shook herself, her dark mane a corona of fine silks about her crest. With a groan of comfort, she laid upon the sands and trusting to him, the one she had followed even directly after her birth, she laid her head upon the cool and fell to a restful sleep.

He, however, would not sleep. Not when life was so close and death even closer. With a grunt, the man clasped his hand to his side and stepped further into the break in the stone. It grew cooler as he walked but equally difficult and he, aware he had a charge, would not allow himself full entrance. He stumbled and slowly sank to his knees, the warmth of blood seeping into his fingers once more. With a gasp, he settled into the sand and began to work at tearing away fabric and making a binding for his wound. He had not had time when he had been forced to flee because of his cousin's treachery, but he could take time with the quiet of the desert to protect his pain.

As the wound was bound tightly, Zahi took his time and leaned against the wall to rest without forgetting his charge. His dearest would sleep only a short time and then she would look over him, perhaps to his death or perhaps to his waking. Then they would be gone once more. So he remained for a time, looking out at the desert beyond and his golden mare outlined by the fierce sun.

It could be only that he had lost blood and that he was hurt that he did not notice what was under him. He shifted, however, and then something could be felt underneath, poking at his seat. He frowned and with care, moved so as to remove the rock, only to find it was a rib bone. One of a set and as he brushed sand to find what it was that lay there, he discovered the paper thin remnants of cloth, long since discolored, and the second and third of the bones, one atop the other. It was small, a woman or a child, then, and no way to tell how long it had been as the desert kept such secrets. He swept it clean but paused for there, beneath the third, a gleam of metal flashed.

His head to the side, much like the jackal had in times long past, he reached out and plucked what was soon discovered to be a key out of the earth. It had been brushed by time as well and gleamed as it were newly polished. He let it play in his fingers, forgetting for a moment his pain. A key then? Here of all places? What possibilities lay within a key?

He chuckled. What possibilities, indeed? “O, that you could give me answers,” he said to it in a hushed whisper, the key which looked to hold promise in its burnished sides. It was a pretty thing and very unlikely a find, for it had not sifted deeper into the sands to be lost. “What say you, my friend? What was your key to?” He glanced down at the bones in inquiry but then, the bones said nothing in return.

Sleep had taken him without his notice when Anat's warm breath played on his cheek. He startled awake and his hand gripped hard about the key as if loathe to lose it. Looking up, he met her dark eyes and laughed in pain. Then because she was at his side, he reached for the woven collar on her neck and she waited for him to stand. He panted, attempted to catch his breath when each intake pulled and hurt. Unsure if it was his imagination, he chose to not touch his belly and find if he bled once more. Instead, he leaned his head on her neck, his arm over her shoulder, and let the sweet scent of her carry him to safer times when, as a younger man, he had slept together with her and dreamt of glories never come to be.

Her saddle felt too far away and he did not attempt it just then. Instead he fingered the key and looked beyond her side to where the sun had begun to tinge the world in darker golds. Night would come on soon and they would be better suited to a warm fire and a secure tent, neither of which he could offer her. Instead, he would be forced to ask her to carry him further and she, dutiful daughter of the wind, would do without complaint. He sighed heavily at the care which he could not give his people and thus leveled completely upon her.

Finally standing upright, he set the key into his sash and shared water with her once more. She was not greedy nor did she begrudge him the little he took to keep himself standing. As he replaced the water skin, instead, she nuzzled him and gave him a soft whicker of camaraderie.

“Let us go,” he nodded to her and went to try to mount her. But she sidled and tossed her head.

“My lovely?” he reached for her mane. His delight allowed him the touch but the moment he attempt to mount, she again, sidled and tossed her head, this time, pawing the ground. Each time he chose to make motions toward mounting her, she would move again until he stood and set his hand on his chin, stroked his beard in thought. The pain was great and he could not have attempted many more times, but there was some purpose to her actions, for she was the wise one while he the fool.

When assured she had his attention, Anat tossed her head once more. He watched her, but she had to do so once more before he let his gaze leave her and turn to look at the wall. Faded paintings stood out on the stone, barely visible with the slanted light of the setting sun. He stepped forward and let his hand run along the lines. Here, a flying horse, there a man prostate. The images meant nothing to him but Anat had no doubt meant for him to inspect them and so he did, as obedient to her wishes as she was so often to his.

When his thumb caught on a divot, he leaned forward to look more closely. The wall had been smoothed by the deserts and any crack seemed of monumental importance. Even more so, he realized, when it looked and felt almost like a key hole. But it couldn't be!

Yet, moved to act, he did reach for the key which he had found held in that lost one's rib bones and after blowing it free of sand, found it was, indeed a key hole and in fact, fit the very key which he slotted into it. With a breath of surprise, Zahi turned the key which caught, and then slid smoothly about. As if it had only waited for someone to come along and make use of it.

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

It only took a bit to get him to see the blamed key hole! Sheesh!

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

Jackal and happy puppy! No need to worry about setting stage. I'll fit one in and you are EVIL! Heh. But I love that so after the key! Yosh!

Looking for a few good... amoeba moosen. (g'on, ignore post count, eh?)

Foster said
Provided any misconcieved notions doesn't blind us like lemmings off a cliff, we'll do fine.

Awe, c'mon. Lemmings have a fairly good track record. They're still around! Maybe we need to listen to our inner lemming a bit more often. It would take care of the current population explosion.

Foster said
Pretty much the entire moral of "To Light a Fire" aside from the value of the buddy-system... provided you're knowledgeable... otherwise you die like Specialist Wade..(subverted, in that he's shot in the liver, pretty much as garaunteed bleed-out as a heart-shot or a stab in the kidney, )

And now I'm cursing the lack of high speed internet in my back-woods world. I'm not sure of the To Light a Fire reference unless you mean Jack London's To Build a Fire - which I have read? Otherwise, I'm again coming up empty - though I'm sure you've a quick remedy for that. And besides, we all know that before you do anything as dangerous as walking out your front door, it helps to bring a buddy along. Preferably a slower one so that you can get to safety.

Foster said
Our desire to symbolize things also extends to the need to personify things, a lesson we could do well to forget. Life of Pi.

Symbolization and personification definitely lead us to believe that we are, in some way, removed from reality. Or perhaps, puts up a barrier between us and reality. When something is symbolized, personified, anthropomorphized, etc., we can then believe our assumptions regarding the state of our own personal world view is then reality and those assumptions gain a power which, had we merely our senses to rely on and not words, they would not otherwise have. Although, having been around a goodly many of social creatures in groups (not necessarily human) I have to wonder at the truth in that. Once we become something called a social animal, our very hierarchy has a power in it that is not related to what is real. Hierarchical societies, social groups, are governed by more than aptitude and ability, but also by some strange construct of birth, allegiance, alliance, etc. Which then leads me to wonder at how much a "construct" those indeed are. Aren't they just as you said earlier (or Heinlen, actually), just more complex reactions of an organism to gain control over his survival (population pressure)? At a base level, all behaviors are the same as they were at the moment we were born, mutations to allow the organism and its get the best chances at survival.
Dunno. Just rambling because you've given me a lot to think about. :) And it's fun to play with the ideas, as if I were someone who actually knew.

Foster said
Natural selection itself could be said to promote Blue And Orange Morality of a sort, as it promotes behaviors that maximize an individual's genetic contribution to future generations. Period. Whether that maximization occurs through intrafamilial altruism that safeguards one's close kin at one's own expense, or through rape, infanticide, and brutally killing off one's competitors doesn't make a lick of difference,

A nice way of parceling out opposite sides to the same coin and I have to say I'm in complete agreement, having sat in on many meetings where opposites cannot come to a consensus and yet, are actually fighting for the same things, are just basically fighting over semantics (or ideologies, or belief systems, world systems, etc. - symbolized views which give purpose to their arguments). I hadn't heard of it before, so thank you so much for explaining that to me.

As for horses... heh heh... okay, so I did totally grab my all but adult son and read that aloud to him because seriously? Horse-icide to deal with flies. Brilliant.

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

The blue and black sands wove a world apart around the figure which crossed it, a habit of silent watching with luminous eyes and feet made both small and wide. Her steps hadn't the same delicate tread of the mouse, nor the softened slide of the viper. Instead, they broadcast to all her intentions, if not her reasons and each creature bound to the earth both hidden and crouched in the darkness made note of her in their quiet world.

Across the sands, a jackal yipped and its kits joined in. In solidarity, they heralded her coming and then, like the rest, fell to soundlessness. First the jackal and then its kits, ears pricked wide and narrow noses to the sands, trotted about one dune and up another, keeping care of where the woman was.

The bitch was darker than her kits and they were old enough to fend for themselves yet they clung to her and the last of her milk-drained teats to swallow up the last moments of community. They would make their own dens, have their own litters or sire litters, and at times, would keep in pairs, but never again would there be the panting jumble of legs where food was if not plentiful, dependable. She, however, had meant to move on, as her natural imperative, her drive to feed her own belly, had become more and more solid a need. This subtle difference from the usual, this solitary footstep on her sands was enough to make her break from them and they, as if sensing it, did their best to keep up with her in a bid to not lose her just yet.

Despite their need, youth did eventually win out and they were diverted by mere lack of will. Two at first paused at a bit of half lost scrub breaking from some windswept rocks and the last, a hundred yards beyond, sat on her haunches and made a yawning cry which her mother ignored.

The sun began to wash the darkness with violet dawn, still very much behind the shadow of the earth, and the blanket of night fled, yet the jackal kept up with the steady tred of the old woman. She, because the woman had made no attempt to deviate, had trotted ahead and sat atop the next dune, staring at the woman. With a shake, she laid on her belly and canted her head to the side in a curious pose. What was she to do with something so large, so solitary, which did not need to be harried or nibbled on? Still, it was a change and she was but a pup herself, her first litter abandoned like she had been abandoned by her mother, and such oddities like this woman were still of interest to her keen intellect.

Peregrine [Closet & Glaw]

MOOSE! OH Em Geeeee wutta moose. I shall sigh in relief and faint away from sheer joy.

Give me a second. The sands are being rather barren, or aren't barren but don't want to give me something serious to work with. So far, a jackal has poked his head out of them.

Looking for a few good... amoeba moosen. (g'on, ignore post count, eh?)

:) On it.. and I shall force my way in, as befits the post, I'm sure!

Looking for a few good... amoeba moosen. (g'on, ignore post count, eh?)

I am glad to be missed and definitely have missed you right on back. And I am not at ALL surprised that you'd take the all above and everything else that hasn't been thought of route. ;) I've my axe and about fifty feet of rope readied for our expedition (one can never have too much rope).

I'm thinking RPG isn't supposed to go down again, it was fairly stable before (I began in '08 and it had been up a year or so prior to that, failing only of late) but I think I may start to definitely keep track of posts, yup! For certain. And I may wrest an email from you at some time in the case it does get down, so we can mutate into something else and continue.

I will manipulate away! Unless you give me a mirror again. Which I will get very mean with and ... and stomp on. ;)

Looking for a few good... amoeba moosen. (g'on, ignore post count, eh?)

Glaw said ...that sassy woman whose red hair and strangle-hold on werewolves stand out now more than her name.

*hee hee* Clavie.. dearest Clavie. Oh yes... I will one day write a book about her. Once I can write murder mysteries.. (heretofore impossible for me to do), because anything else wouldn't fit her personality.

Glaw said
Nobody catches and weaves the ridiculous and the magical into brilliant stories like you do.

You know, coming from YOU that is a huge compliment, because I often times feel I'm just holding onto your coat-tails and trying to keep up. I mean, for gods'sakes, Glaw! It was just a Caravan! Next I know, we're rushing through trees, turning into lichts, and wakening a Red Dragon (which wasn't a dragon at all, not sure if we ever really knew what the heck it was) and snatching some guy through a mirror (and to be fair, you gave me a blank mirror - I railed against that mirror! What in the world am I to do with a BLANK MIRROR???) I love writing with you. You drag the best out of me, generally with me squalling in terror in the background.

Glaw said But now I have an old woman with a secret that is ripe to be told, and no one yet to tell it to. What do you think? Fill in plot as we go? Any particular time period and/or setting you fancy? Past, present or future!

Old woman, tale to tell, and I get to choose the time period and setting and ...and...

Oh you know it doesn't really matter. Why don't you let her tell us where we'll be and end up? No doubt we'll be some kind of mixture of all time period and the setting is just as likely to change after twenty posts from desert to under the sea as I am to have dinner tonight, so I wouldn't dream of trying to capture your creative forces within any boundaries. Unless, well, unless you WANT me to give you fences just so you can bust them down. There is some fun in that. :)

Do we need a time period? Can it be... all of the time periods and yet, none at all? How about outside of time? Time is malleable? Or does she need a particular setting to live her story out in? Then I call... well, someone wrote Bazaar and I've been loving the idea of sands and hot winds and very spindly legged horses. A land of lions and limited water and closely packed homes to keep the dangers of the natural world out. Yes?
And if that doesn't suit, we could always throw her into a deep forest, quiet and sacred, with white birch everywhere and a wind soughing through the upper canopy (for a birch stand so old would have an upper canopy) where even the brush does not dare grow and the ancient irish elk walks with his mighty rack (almost a moose, but infinitely cooler, besides the fact I've never put one in a story and seriously? An irish elk would kick a moosen's hiney). Ah hah!

Or, really, any place she wants to go. You talk it over with her and I shall follow you both into whatever story the dear wants to tell us. :)

Looking for a few good... amoeba moosen. (g'on, ignore post count, eh?)

Foster said -In short, nature is Cthulhu. Just be glad it isn't to kill us; it still does, in very horriffic ways.

So War has been declared, by sheer apathy (can it be considered apathy when Nature doesn't even recognize Man as anything more worthy of note than said horse-fly?) and our dominating need to be counted. :) I can go with that.

But all joking aside, it never ceases to amaze me the multitude of ways to approach any one subject. This is a common enough thread in evolutionary psychology of which I am a huge fan. Namely, mankind is but one more cog in the great wheel of Nature and to think otherwise, is just a tad bit spoiled rotten and a little egocentric of us (us, being mankind). And actually, no evolutionary psychologist would actually SAY that. What is said, instead, is that we are, on an evolutionary clock, not so far removed from the rest of the natural world. In fact, it is this truth which binds and directs much of our behaviors, and just because we can symbolize things (put them into words) doesn't necessarily make reality any more complex than our reaction to our root biology.

In other words, I think we've as much chance making it through Nature's gauntlets as does an amoeba or a cockroach, provided we have the needed dna for survival.