hate_gettin_older | (no subject)

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milliways

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One thing Edgar decided to do after that last visit to the meadow: go out for a walk by himself sometime. He's starting to enjoy the occasional bit of solitude.

It's really nice out here by the lake. And it's warm; he's stripped down to a t-shirt, though he's still got a jacket tied around his waist by the arms. The flat rock he's found to sit against has been warmed by the sun, to the point where it's almost as soothing to his back as yet another hot shower.

Edgar's got a basket containing a couple of sandwiches, a packet of pretzels, and a thermos full of cold lemonade, and is feeling pretty damn at peace with the world right now.

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WHAT A GOOD IDEA.

Edgar doesn't need a second look at that adult whatsit's glare before taking off after Nitwit at a dead run.

He'd be swearing under his breath if he had any breath to spare.

The cool, damp air of the lakeside meets the hot, dry air of the Warhoon, and the two runners are engulfed in a cloud of mist and dust. Nitwit keeps its head down and just runs, trusting that Edgar is close behind. The breeze becomes a blast of raw heat and blinding sand. Behind them, the thundering footfalls of the adult thoat draw closer.

And then fade into the distance.

Around them, nothing but shadow and red dust. Beneath their feet, hard-packed dry earth broken only by patches of yellow moss and lichen.

And Edgar trips over a protruding rock, and falls in a soaring arc to land face down on the dirt, raising a little cloud of dust.

He pushes himself up, coughing, and squints in the changed sunlight.

Nitwit stares as Edgar soars passed him. Okay fine! It can run faster! It rumbles passed Edgar and gives a triumphant little bugle! They got away!

What little sunlight there is is decidedly different to where he came from. There's more red-gold in the light and the air tastes strange. Everything feels strange.

Edited 2015-07-06 03:44 (UTC)

It's ...

... dry.

And hot, far much more so than the pleasant warmth of the afternoon sunlight out by the lake.

"... what ...?"

The lake is gone. In its place, a flat plain of soft silt stretching to the horizon, where it terminates in jagged, low hills.

Nitwit loses steam and the lumbering gait turns into a trot, and then bit of a mosey. He looks back over his shoulder at Edgar and tilts his head, like a big, curious dog.

He's not wonking anymore, though. Instinct is kicking in, telling him to not advertise his presence.

"Hey," Edgar says aloud, a touch hoarsely, "you. Nitwit. Where the fuck are we?"

Nitwit doesn't stop. It lifts its nose and snuffles the air. When it sees Edgar isn't following him, it trundles back. It snuffles at Edgar's hair and gently nudges him, urging him to his feet.

"Okay," he growls, "got it, fine, I'm getting -- up --"

He's tired enough, and starting to be sore enough from the exertion in the mud, that a serious heave seems called for to get him to his feet.

Instead it launches him several feet into the air, arms and legs flailing with the abrupt lack of contact with the ground.

Nitwit's little eyes go wide as Edgar goes sprawling, face down in the soft dusty earth. He trots over and very, very gently nudges him again.

He's coughing, having inhaled some of the dust on impact.

"What," he manages, "what the fuck was that."

Nitwit looks back to where the young man started and then to where he landed.

He shakes his head and then, hops a little on his four front feet.

You bounced.

Moving more slowly this time, he scoots to a sitting position.

"Whatever it was doesn't work for you, huh?"

Nitwit seems to frown. Maybe its face is just built that way. Again, it lifts its head and snuffles the air, turning to look over Edgar's shoulder.

Its eyes go even wider this time and it makes a quiet little squeak in the back of its throat.

Edited 2015-07-07 03:35 (UTC)

Edgar turns to look.

There's a sand-colored wall too huge to fit into his head, stretching between the ground and the sky, billowing like a curtain in a draft.

Billowing closer.

Nitwit bolts in the opposite direction. It didn't move this fast when it was in fear of being trampled. Its broad flat feet send up little puffs of dust and it lays its head down flat in some misguided attempt at being more aerodynamic.

If Edgar cares, it seems to be headed for the hills.

Edited 2015-07-07 03:45 (UTC)

"Whoa, whoa, wait --"

Edgar once again scrambles to his feet too fast, and catapults himself into the air in a high arc -- but it does land him closer to Nitwit, and this time he's more prepared to try and land on his feet. He still stumbles, but pushes himself immediately into another leap.

Somewhere in his head he's repeating what the hell. What the hell over and over, but he's also starting to get the hang of this bouncing, springing motion.

Nitwit is moving like its tail is on fire. It doesn't even hesitate when Edgar goes sailing past him. It just puts on a burst of speed.

A huge gust of wind hits Edgar's back and sends him sailing in the wrong direction. Behind him, he can hear the rumble of thoat feet ahead of the roar of the storm. Something grabs him by the jacket tied around his waist. It's Nitwit. It bounces up and snags him out of the air with huge, flat teeth.

Edited 2015-07-08 03:32 (UTC)

Edgar yelps at the tug around his waist, but is entirely relieved to be dragged down out of the wind; he crouches against Nitwit with his eyes screwed nearly shut, clinging to the ground.

"How do we get out of this?" he shouts, as though expecting to get a sensible answer.

Nitwit wonks pitifully, a sound made even more pathetic by being uttered around a mouthful of Edgar's jacket. The thoatling blinks at Edgar and a secondary set of transparent eyelids closes over its beady black eyes.

It leans into Edgar and tries to start trotting again. It's also not letting go of Edgar's coat.

The storm washes over them, blotting out the sun and sky, plunging them into choking blackness. The thoatling continues moving forward, head down, leaning into the wind. It seems to know where it's going.

He tries to protect his face from the stinging, scouring dust with one arm, and with the other holds tight to the jacket that's become a safety line between him and Nitwit, and follows along.

After a handful of steps he leans over, huddling against the beast's broad back -- its hide is a lot thicker than his, and its mass is at least something of a shield against the storm.

They forge through, the storm battering them from all sides. Time melts away and loses all meaning. Eventually, Nitwit leads over ground that slowly begins to rise beneath their feet. A patch of shadow ahead becomes a low overhang under the rock. Behind it, there's something that's too shallow to be called a cave and too deep to merely be an overhang.

Nitwit sags as they escape the worst of the wind.

So does Edgar, down to his knees, coughing and wheezing. He'd worked out eventually to pull up his shirt front to cover his nose and mouth, but not before inhaling what felt like half the dust in the storm.

Between gasps for breath, he reaches out one shaky hand and pats the little beast on one massive shoulder.

"Good boy," he rasps. "Or girl. Whichever. Good Nitwit."

The thoatling goes to its knees in a patch of soft yellow moss, wiping the side of its face to get the worst of the dust off. It sneezes a few times and then glances up as Edgar speaks to it.

A moment later, Edgar has a huge head in his lap, and a thoatling that's grumbling under its breath.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles back, and gently pats the leathery head. "Good Nitwit. You got us out of that."