Post by Daven Imrael Finn on Jun 26, 2009 1:03:43 GMT -5
This isn’t right.
Daven squinted up at a pool of sunlight and wondered how his floor had become his ceiling. He tried to look up further for a reason to the quandary, and felt his head skate against the rough wooden floor.
“Ah.” Realization was a warm, filling thing, and chased closely by chagrin. The coy-wolf slithered from his pallet onto the floor, smiling as the world righted itself. “Much better.”
His glasses were strewn in a half full mug of water, his clothes were outside, and Daven had only the mildest recollection of how he’d managed the walk home. Cloudiness from the previous night’s ale lingered behind his eyes, derailing any attempt at coherent thought. The coy-wolf fished his glasses from the mug and downed the water. He was clad only in a breechcloth, and the sun glinted off his fur, warming the skin beneath. Daven yawned and stretched, curling his tail and paws. He shook of any remaining effect from the last night’s debaucheries and let his rumbling belly lead him to the kitchen.
Aware of his predilection for drink, the coy-wolf kept his cabin well-stocked with food and water. The cabin sat near the river and a long, sloping field, so Daven had his fill of wild fodder and fish. He cooked for endurance, anticipating the sudden shocks of winter that interrupted the south’s warm climes. An underground larder was brim-full of dried meats, canned food, and stock enough to make soup for the entire fort. Salt teased him for it, but Daven was adored sensibility as well as he did whiskey, and kept his home prepared.
The crossbreed filled his kettle from the water barrel beside his door, and raked the coals in the hearth to restart a fire. His head was muggy still, but clearing as Daven stumbled around his cabin. As tea brewed, the coy-wolf washed from a basin of cold water, fur still damp as he dressed in linen breeches and a dark blue tunic. Clothes from the previous night were retrieved and neatly deposited into a wicker basket for later cleaning. Though a bachelor, Daven’s cabin was clean and orderly, and as well-organized as his sizeable pantry.
Daven sipped from his tea and compiled an easy breakfast – flatbread, jam, cheese, and smoked fish – smiling as his energy renewed itself. He had worked hard the last few weeks, contributing to the seasonal repairs so the fort’s flotilla remained in peak condition. His wages, only partially depleted after a night of drinking and dining, sat in a satchel by the door.
“A day of is never really a day off,” the coy-wolf muttered, finishing his tea in a gulp. The market beckoned.
By mid-morning, Daven’s cabin was well behind him, blotted from view by a copse of trees edging an expanse of silver-gold field. The coy-wolf had his satchel strapped loosely over one shoulder, the coin in it clinking faintly. The heat had him thankful for the loose-fitting white tunic he wore. Three years of labouring on the fort’s ships had made him ropey with muscle, but Daven’s preference for comfortable clothing hid most of his wiry body. He had the rough look of a labourer, marked by plain fabrics and the purposeful strut to his walk. The coy-wolf worked as he pleased, accepting contracts at behest of the dockmaster. But of late the flotilla was in a rotation of absence, one sent as an envoy, another to deliver material goods, and yet another to scout. The repairs Daven undertook were long lasting, and the ships were in good repair simply by the dedication of their crews. His leisure time had increased, bringing with it a different sort of pace than the canine was used to. For extra money he made fishing gear and sold it through a merchant in the fort. But a solitary life without the distraction of work left an itch.
Fort Emerald Bay was impressive from afar; at its gates, the walls towered up and out, securing a microcosm inside. Daven liked to admire the architecture, but any fondness in him was for the sweeping acres of territory claimed by the fort – wild places just on the edge of civilization. In-between places, just like he was an in-between creature, hybrid of two separate worlds.
“’ello!” his voice was a pleasant warm tenor, a shade away from deepening further. “It’s Daven Finn.”
Daven squinted up at a pool of sunlight and wondered how his floor had become his ceiling. He tried to look up further for a reason to the quandary, and felt his head skate against the rough wooden floor.
“Ah.” Realization was a warm, filling thing, and chased closely by chagrin. The coy-wolf slithered from his pallet onto the floor, smiling as the world righted itself. “Much better.”
His glasses were strewn in a half full mug of water, his clothes were outside, and Daven had only the mildest recollection of how he’d managed the walk home. Cloudiness from the previous night’s ale lingered behind his eyes, derailing any attempt at coherent thought. The coy-wolf fished his glasses from the mug and downed the water. He was clad only in a breechcloth, and the sun glinted off his fur, warming the skin beneath. Daven yawned and stretched, curling his tail and paws. He shook of any remaining effect from the last night’s debaucheries and let his rumbling belly lead him to the kitchen.
Aware of his predilection for drink, the coy-wolf kept his cabin well-stocked with food and water. The cabin sat near the river and a long, sloping field, so Daven had his fill of wild fodder and fish. He cooked for endurance, anticipating the sudden shocks of winter that interrupted the south’s warm climes. An underground larder was brim-full of dried meats, canned food, and stock enough to make soup for the entire fort. Salt teased him for it, but Daven was adored sensibility as well as he did whiskey, and kept his home prepared.
The crossbreed filled his kettle from the water barrel beside his door, and raked the coals in the hearth to restart a fire. His head was muggy still, but clearing as Daven stumbled around his cabin. As tea brewed, the coy-wolf washed from a basin of cold water, fur still damp as he dressed in linen breeches and a dark blue tunic. Clothes from the previous night were retrieved and neatly deposited into a wicker basket for later cleaning. Though a bachelor, Daven’s cabin was clean and orderly, and as well-organized as his sizeable pantry.
Daven sipped from his tea and compiled an easy breakfast – flatbread, jam, cheese, and smoked fish – smiling as his energy renewed itself. He had worked hard the last few weeks, contributing to the seasonal repairs so the fort’s flotilla remained in peak condition. His wages, only partially depleted after a night of drinking and dining, sat in a satchel by the door.
“A day of is never really a day off,” the coy-wolf muttered, finishing his tea in a gulp. The market beckoned.
By mid-morning, Daven’s cabin was well behind him, blotted from view by a copse of trees edging an expanse of silver-gold field. The coy-wolf had his satchel strapped loosely over one shoulder, the coin in it clinking faintly. The heat had him thankful for the loose-fitting white tunic he wore. Three years of labouring on the fort’s ships had made him ropey with muscle, but Daven’s preference for comfortable clothing hid most of his wiry body. He had the rough look of a labourer, marked by plain fabrics and the purposeful strut to his walk. The coy-wolf worked as he pleased, accepting contracts at behest of the dockmaster. But of late the flotilla was in a rotation of absence, one sent as an envoy, another to deliver material goods, and yet another to scout. The repairs Daven undertook were long lasting, and the ships were in good repair simply by the dedication of their crews. His leisure time had increased, bringing with it a different sort of pace than the canine was used to. For extra money he made fishing gear and sold it through a merchant in the fort. But a solitary life without the distraction of work left an itch.
Fort Emerald Bay was impressive from afar; at its gates, the walls towered up and out, securing a microcosm inside. Daven liked to admire the architecture, but any fondness in him was for the sweeping acres of territory claimed by the fort – wild places just on the edge of civilization. In-between places, just like he was an in-between creature, hybrid of two separate worlds.
“’ello!” his voice was a pleasant warm tenor, a shade away from deepening further. “It’s Daven Finn.”
