Backscene: A Bit of Respite Who: Rhocanth Garal and Alderic Thearre Where: An early morning chat. When: 20 Molioris Summary: The two wardens finally sit down for a bit of respite on the trip to Lothering. Rating: G/PG
Dawn doused the sky with drips of orange dye, a spattering of clouds absorbing hints of pink and twirling into combinations that captured the young dwarf's imagination for some time. He had risen before then, jolted awake by a stomach-lurching dream about the archdemon's bellowing maw. Now he desperately needed a palette cleanser. Shaking, he lifted himself from the thin blanket on the floor of his tent. His face was on fire again, in need of another treatment with the cooling salve. Not being at all stingy with it, a big glob came out on his hand and he slapped it on, paying no heed to the bit that spilled over his chin and onto his undershirt. The flaming stopped, and now that he could probe his skin a little, he felt a tiny pin-point of a blister on his cheek. Disgusting. Hopefully no one would notice it. He'd keep his helm on all day, at least until he had a better idea of what this was and whether it might spread. In between dreams about dragons, he thought he had caught himself contemplating fighting without a nose. Could it be done?
It had to be done. Perhaps it would be best if he distracted himself until the others woke. Searching through his things, he found the small book of parchment and the ink and quill he'd brought along, and left his tent to sit on the edge of camp, on a fallen log overlooking the dead embers in the fire. The lordling sat backwards, his feet bare, staring up at the sky. His fingertips idly tapped the point of the quill against the parchment. Wordless thoughts hummed through his mind as each cloud passed by, drifting above the orange ball that rose from slumber. He thought once more upon the place where the sun must sleep. How hot it must be, how perfectly parched. In all his life he might have never seen the sun, or such things as clouds, and their delicious snow. Oh, snow would have been so welcome just then. Rhocanth would have loved to be in the Frostbacks, diving face-first into a thick, woolly, cooling pile of snow...
There was a rustle of sound behind him. Perhaps someone waking? He clutched at his quill and completely unconsciously turned his head to look. Oh, blast! Whoever it was might have seen the mess on his face. Perhaps if he opened his book and shoved his face into it as if he were very, very busy they would simply pass by and not notice... Yes, yes. He looked very busy indeed. His fingertips drummed out a rhythm on his knee, and he immediately went to penning a few lines in the form that followed. So busy. Writing poetry.