Re: Heart of a Wick [Memory, Closed]
Posted: Fri Jul 12, 2019 8:32 am
Mid Afternoon, 21 Roalis, 2713
On the Turga
On the Turga
Faizra nodded vigorously and giggled at Oisin’s pronouncement that everyone had to go somewhere, and even Ibo let out a soft, cheerful snort. It was hard to tell exactly where the older wick fell - whether he really appreciated toilet humor, whether he just appreciated his daughter, or, well, both.
Neither Faizra nor Ibo seemed to mind the silence at all; the only sound in the river was the quiet noise of the paddles, dipping in and out of the water. If Oisin sat and listened, really listened, he would hear a whole orchestra behind it: the soft splashing of a distance current on a rock, the sort of burbling noise even the Turga made in places, the faint buzzing of flies, the occasional noisy croak of a river frog. It wasn’t quiet, not really, not if you knew the Turga.
“Jerky?” Faizra asked about the new and unfamiliar word, her gaze focused forward on the river. This time, at least, whether because he didn’t know or because he didn’t intend to interrupt, Ibo didn’t supply a translation. Oisin’s explanation was enough though, and Faizra nodded vigorously. “I haven’t had ‘t like that,” she said.
Faizra laughed happily at Oisin’s joke, still paddling steadily, her voice bright and cheerful.
“A snack ‘s a food?” Faizra asked. She had the gist of it, at least, enough that the joke had been funny, but the slang word escaped her, and she assumed it was some specific mercenary dish, or maybe a foreigner one. “It tastes good or bad?”
At this more serious question (food being always serious around age 12 or so), the small mugrobi witch glanced back over her shoulder at the mercenary in their boat. She let out a loud, startled yelp at the sight of him, and fumbled with her paddle. One moment it was in her hands; the next it was sweeping past the boat on the currents, bobbing and floating and smacking once against the side of the boat, the quick brutal waters of the Turga dragging it back -
But Ibo was there, and his hand flashed out into the water and scooped up the paddle, dropping it at his feet, water flying from it to fleck against Oisin. His hands went back to his own paddle, and for a moment, muscles straining softly, he worked the boat on his own, bringing the canoe to stillness against a cluster of water weeds. The boat shifted, turning slightly with the force of the currents, but held still.
“Epa’ma, Da,” Faizra said, ducking her head in shame, eyes wide.
Ibo said something in response in Mugrobi, and Faizra nodded, looking even more deeply ashamed now, squirming slightly on the bench.
“Ea?” Ibo asked.
“Ea, da,” Faizra promised. “Ep’ama. Domea domea.” She added something else in Mugrobi.
Ibo said something else, a long-ish sentence, and Faizra nodded again, but this time she looked relieved, brightening up. “Ea!” She agreed.
Ibo turned to Oisin, and grinned. “I have told her ‘f she drops ‘t again, she‘ll make a new one. Would y’?” He extended the paddle forward to Oisin, gesturing for him to pass it to a sheepish looking Faizra, reaching back with open hands. The paddle was hand-carved and heavy, wet from the river water, but it was smooth to the touch, well-used like the boat and the rest of their things, worn down by the steady grip of strong hands and the hard work of navigating the river.
The immediate drama of the almost-lost paddle over, Faizra stared at Oisin a little more, having not remotely forgotten her original concerns. “You are sick?” She asked him, touching one hand to the stripe of skin above the other elbow, where Oisin’s skin went abruptly from dark to shockingly light. She stared unabashedly at his knees as well, her own attitude about overall nudity made clear by her distinct lack of clothing, even if she apparently wasn’t used to lighter skin.
Ibo snorted with laughter and didn’t help, working his paddle into the water once more. Without even a word from him, Faizra turned industriously back to her own paddling, the two moving in easy harmony once more. The small canoe, still stalled against the clump of river weeds Ibo had them navigated into, swung back out into the water. It began to move once more, as smoothly as if it had never stopped, sliding steadily up the river once more beneath the bright hot sun.
Neither Faizra nor Ibo seemed to mind the silence at all; the only sound in the river was the quiet noise of the paddles, dipping in and out of the water. If Oisin sat and listened, really listened, he would hear a whole orchestra behind it: the soft splashing of a distance current on a rock, the sort of burbling noise even the Turga made in places, the faint buzzing of flies, the occasional noisy croak of a river frog. It wasn’t quiet, not really, not if you knew the Turga.
“Jerky?” Faizra asked about the new and unfamiliar word, her gaze focused forward on the river. This time, at least, whether because he didn’t know or because he didn’t intend to interrupt, Ibo didn’t supply a translation. Oisin’s explanation was enough though, and Faizra nodded vigorously. “I haven’t had ‘t like that,” she said.
Faizra laughed happily at Oisin’s joke, still paddling steadily, her voice bright and cheerful.
“A snack ‘s a food?” Faizra asked. She had the gist of it, at least, enough that the joke had been funny, but the slang word escaped her, and she assumed it was some specific mercenary dish, or maybe a foreigner one. “It tastes good or bad?”
At this more serious question (food being always serious around age 12 or so), the small mugrobi witch glanced back over her shoulder at the mercenary in their boat. She let out a loud, startled yelp at the sight of him, and fumbled with her paddle. One moment it was in her hands; the next it was sweeping past the boat on the currents, bobbing and floating and smacking once against the side of the boat, the quick brutal waters of the Turga dragging it back -
But Ibo was there, and his hand flashed out into the water and scooped up the paddle, dropping it at his feet, water flying from it to fleck against Oisin. His hands went back to his own paddle, and for a moment, muscles straining softly, he worked the boat on his own, bringing the canoe to stillness against a cluster of water weeds. The boat shifted, turning slightly with the force of the currents, but held still.
“Epa’ma, Da,” Faizra said, ducking her head in shame, eyes wide.
Ibo said something in response in Mugrobi, and Faizra nodded, looking even more deeply ashamed now, squirming slightly on the bench.
“Ea?” Ibo asked.
“Ea, da,” Faizra promised. “Ep’ama. Domea domea.” She added something else in Mugrobi.
Ibo said something else, a long-ish sentence, and Faizra nodded again, but this time she looked relieved, brightening up. “Ea!” She agreed.
Ibo turned to Oisin, and grinned. “I have told her ‘f she drops ‘t again, she‘ll make a new one. Would y’?” He extended the paddle forward to Oisin, gesturing for him to pass it to a sheepish looking Faizra, reaching back with open hands. The paddle was hand-carved and heavy, wet from the river water, but it was smooth to the touch, well-used like the boat and the rest of their things, worn down by the steady grip of strong hands and the hard work of navigating the river.
The immediate drama of the almost-lost paddle over, Faizra stared at Oisin a little more, having not remotely forgotten her original concerns. “You are sick?” She asked him, touching one hand to the stripe of skin above the other elbow, where Oisin’s skin went abruptly from dark to shockingly light. She stared unabashedly at his knees as well, her own attitude about overall nudity made clear by her distinct lack of clothing, even if she apparently wasn’t used to lighter skin.
Ibo snorted with laughter and didn’t help, working his paddle into the water once more. Without even a word from him, Faizra turned industriously back to her own paddling, the two moving in easy harmony once more. The small canoe, still stalled against the clump of river weeds Ibo had them navigated into, swung back out into the water. It began to move once more, as smoothly as if it had never stopped, sliding steadily up the river once more beneath the bright hot sun.