hate_gettin_older | (no subject)

A hot wind blows down from the hillside, laying the tall grass flat. It carries with it a cloud of red dust and the tinge of iron on the back of the tongue. There's a rumble in the ground. In the distance, there's a strange rumble and a faint but familiar voice curses the ancestry of some unseen entity.

... what.

Edgar straightens up a little bit, trying to see where the noise is coming from.

It's coming from up the valley, and it sounds like a herd of elephants. Or if one had ever heard such a thing, it would sound familiar. Perhaps someone has told Edgar stories?

There, on the rocky slope above, is a Thark warlord on thoatback, hurtling headlong towards the Bar.

Trailing behind the Thark warlord, eight legs struggling to keep up, is a miniature version of the thoat. The tiny beast is without a riding harness, and is huffing too hard to caterwaul for its mother. The rider and thoat disappears from sight over the hill and the tiny thoat gets disoriented. Thoats don't see really well, it turns out. And the baby thoat is now hurtling towards the thoat-shaped bunch of rocks Edgar is sunning himself on.

-- Christ, it's fast. And a hell of a lot bigger than it looks in comparison to the mother, it turns out.

Edgar scrambles up off the rocks, grabbing the basket with his lunch in it, and dodges to one side.

The thoatling realizes far too late that the pile of rock is not its crechemother. Even without the tusks that mark a fullgrown thoat, its eyes are on the sides of its blunt little head. Which is now more blunt than before, after running headlong into the boulder a few feet from where Edgar is standing.

It blinks, shakes its head, staggers back and makes a noise like a drunken swan.

WONK.

Edgar eyes it warily from several yards away. Is it going to charge him again?

Just in case, he stoops and picks up a rock about the size of his fist.

It approaches the boulder again, this time at a slower speed, head down and with a look of grim determination. It bounces off again, and staggers away, backwards this time, into the lake.

Something soft and squishy grabs it by the ankles and something wet splashes up into its eyes. It tries to pick up all eight feet at one time and promptly goes face first into the water

WOOOOOOOONNNNNK.

The sound reverberates in Edgar's chest.

"What are you doing, you little idiot?" Edgar shouts. "You'll have it over your fool head next."

The thoatling can't hear him. He's drowning. He's being boiled in lava. He's being sprayed with acid.

He's flat on his belly with all eight legs flailing, spraying mud and reeds in all directions, braying at the top of his lungs. Well, at least until he inhales a snoot full of water, and then he's sneezing and coughing and braying.

Edgar drops the basket and the rock, steps up on top of a flat stone, and cups both hands around his mouth. "Oi! Baby whatsit! Over here --"

It's clearly not hearing him. He lets out an aggrieved groan, jumps off the rock, and wades into the shallows to circle around the terrified baby whatsit. Maybe if he can get close enough to give it a good shove, without getting clipped by one of those feet ...

Gingerly, he reaches past one flailing leg to press one hand flat against the thing's shoulder.

WONK? (sneezecoughchoke) WONK!

The thoatling feels a warm touch on its back and senses the bodymind beside it. Someone has come to save it from the lava pits! It turns and starts swim-flailing towards the helping one.

Two leathery, meaty feet catch Edgar behind the shins and take his feet out from under him. It's like being taken to the ground by an ottoman upholstered in soft brushed leather. Only with more mud and reeds and thoat snot.

And also more swearing!

Edgar struggles back to his feet, dripping mud, and glares at the baby whatsit. "You complete nitwit, what -- rrgh -- what the hell do you think you're doing?"

All this swim-flailing seems to have taken the last bit of the thoatling's energy. It tries to stand up. Every time the four front feet gain some purchase, the four back feet slide out from under it again. It sags back into the mud, having churned up enough reeds to actually prevent it from drowning when it lays its head down in defeat.

It peers up at Edgar and tries to blink the muck of its tiny little eyes. WOOOOoooOoooooooooooooonk.

"Jesus fuckin Christ," he groans, and drops back down to one knee in the mud. "Come here -- no, come on, you stupid little bastard, pick up your damn head --"

With an effort, he lifts the whatsit's head and rests it against his knee to prop it up out of the water.

The thoatling lets him lift its head, resting heavily against him. The beast sucks in a huge lungful of air and lets it out in a melodramatic sigh.

This is my life now.

Edited 2015-07-02 03:24 (UTC)

"Yeah, yeah," Edgar agrees, "I know, everything's terrible. Give us your face a moment, nitwit, come on --"

Very carefully, he presses the whatsit's eyes shut one at a time, and sluices a handful of lake water over each eye to rinse away the mud.

The thoatling blows mud and snot out of its nose and wonks quietly, pushing its face up into Edgar's hands. He touches its eyes and it holds its breath, the back four feet squirming under its haunches.

His hands, at any rate, are considerably gentler than his words. So's his voice, if it comes to that.

"All right, you great ugly beast, we're gonna get out of the water now. Okay? This way."

He pushes hard, a slow steady pressure, trying to get the whatsit to its feet.

The helper person is pushing him. It's so strange, he only has two hands. What kind of person only has two hands? The thoatling puts its head down into Edgar's belly and pushes back.

It's clear from the sucking sounds beneath it, if it gets its feet under it while still in the water, it's gonna get stuck even worse.

"Ugh, no, stop that --" He shoves the whatsit's head away from his belly, carefully. "No butting in the stomach. Understand me? No."

Right. Somehow or other he's got to get the little nitwit onto the more solid ground before it tries to get up on its feet.

The thoatling peers up at Edgar with a look of pure and utter confusion. Is the helper person going to leave him here to die? It tries to get to its knees and the back half gets up, which sends the front half sliding forward into Edgar again. They both topple back to the muck with a squelch, the thoatling half-sprawled on top of Edgar.

It tilts its head to peer at Edgar's face up close. The helper person has no tusks. So weird. It gives another plaintive wonk.

Exasperated, Edgar wooonks back at it.

The thoatling's mouth snaps shut and its eyes go wide.

"Christ, you don't half stink," Edgar mutters. "Right. Now we," and he reaches out to tug lightly on one of the creature's nub-horns, "are going this way. Got it?"

The thoatling's head bobs in the direction of the nub-horn and the creature looked keenly at Edgar.

wonk?