Path: usenet.ee.pdx.edu!cs.uoregon.edu!news.uoregon.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!news.sprintlink.net!in2.uu.net!not-for-mail From: Guido Roessling Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives Subject: STORY: Qelrik part 82 Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc Date: 20 Aug 1995 12:58:36 -0400 Organization: TU Darmstadt Lines: 234 Sender: smm@uunet.uu.net Approved: smm@uunet.uu.net Distribution: world Message-ID: <417pjs$ql2@rodan.UU.NET> NNTP-Posting-Host: rodan.uu.net This is a multi-part message in MIME format. ---------------------------------3101790923245756771395827634 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii *** Take a look at the QELRIK WWW Page at http://www.pu.informatik.th-darmstadt.de/dida/qelrik.html *** ---------------------------------3101790923245756771395827634 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain ================================================================= Getting Acquainted ================================================================= "It just needs a few stitches," Fox said through gritted teeth. "Unless you're a real healer, don't bother with magic. It doesn't work on me." "Who needs to resort to magic?" Percy asked rhetorically. "There's a wealth of help in nature without having to go all hocus-pocus." Percy went to a large bag near his own bedroll. For several minutes, he sorted through the bag, taking out and replacing odd objects, some measuring devices Fox recognized only from her own master's desk, many things she simply did not recognize at all. The bag itself must be magical, she thought, because there was simply no way all that gear could fit in so small a package. At last, he drew out a small jar, a roll of what looked like black silk thread and a needle. Fox tightened her jaw and sat, closing her pale eyes. Her head still ached furiously, and now she was going to have to deal with stitches. "I hate needles," she said passionately, as Percy sat next to her, tipping her jaw to get the best light. "I hate them, I hate them, I hate them." Percy looked intently at his work as he threaded the needle and tied a knot. "Oh, you don't have to tell me about that, old thing! I'd have to get a damn sight squiffy m'self before I'd let anyone come at me with one!" He picked up the jar, loosening the broad cork and dipping his finger in a sharp-smelling green paste. He smeared the length of the cut with the strange substance. "Won't have to worry about this bite then, will you, my girl? Numbs it up good and proper, at least, so I'm told." With a frown, Fox stripped off her right glove. She touched the wound experimentally, and was surprised to feel nothing. It was almost as if she was touching someone else's skin. She visibly relaxed as Sir Percy threaded his needle with the black silk and set to work sewing up her face. "You know," Percy said easily, "the Antilean physicians always advocated a simple back-and-forth stitch, but in my experience, you just can't beat a good cross-stitch, what what? Keeps the wound from easily opening up again while it heals, don't y'know." "Snell o' dat taste is awhul," Fox said through clenched teeth, suppressing her gag reflex. "Oh, isn't it just!" Sir Percy said cheerfully as he continued his work. "Still and all, you'll find this newt paste and thread a real wonder!" "Newts?" Fox said with disgust. "Oh, yes indeed! Why I used an extract from Triturus Odiferous to make the paste. Numbs the nerves and clots the wound. And the thread comes from our little friend Triturus Vulgaris. The thread will dissolve in a couple of days, and in less than a week I promise you there'll be no trace of a wound on that lovely countenance." "Newts." Fox echoed, this time with a tone of disbelief. "I've been penning a little monograph on the subject," Sir Percy continued as he worked carefully. "'Newts: What They're Good For' I call it. Straight to the point, none of that academia fiddle-faddle, I say. Let them know what they're getting right up front! I've catalogued over two hundred species, you know. Of course, as you know, some have helpful healing properties. Others can kill you just by spitting on you. But, did you know some of them make good eating? I make a newt jerky to die for! Some of the big docile ones make effective draft excluders and waterproof mortar. You can skin a few of the big ones to make armour (mind you, the pong is unbearable). The innards of others can be distilled into a simply scrummy liqueur. And a few make a passable sausage. There's even one or two induce some sort of --" "You sent a lot o' tine on the sudjett," Fox muttered, somewhat exasperated. "Are 'e done yet?" "Almost, my dear, almost. Well, it passes the time, I daresay, what? Beats going into the family business?" "What dusiness?" Fox asked, eager to discuss anything not newt-related. "Oh, taking care of things, this and that. Grandad was given the clock a few years ago when he began to confuse himself with bits of furniture. Poor old gent is really getting on, and when I last saw him, he thought he was the scullery keeping-table. Dad was sent to Coventry for spending rather a lot of time in the company of, well, not very good company, let's say, what? Uncle runs things now, though he's been rather keen to find me and turn the firm over to me. Can't say I'm hot on the idea of being found just yet, though. Too much to do, what what? No time for newts if I have to go back. It'll just be signing scrolls, presiding over the courts, attending this ball or that party, negotiating treaties. Mind-numbingly dull stuff, what?" "Not really," Fox said thickly. Her duties as a squire had sometimes required such administrative tasks, which she found she rather enjoyed. She had a knack for administration, she had discovered, and particularly liked presiding over quarterly tribute courts. Moonfang, her master's keep, was an Imperial tribute house. Her squire-brothers Dies and Luther had found it dull, but she had not. "Still don't unnerstand what you're talgging adout." "Well," Sir Percy paused and blushed, "I'm sort of the heir to the Duchy of Tania," he whispered. "Keep it dark, eh?" Sir Percy made a final knot in the thread and trimmed the end. "There!" he said triumphantly. "All tickety-boo!" Fox worked her jaw cautiously and touched the sewn jaw. "You have a neat hand," she said. It was strange to talk with so much numb skin. She eyed Percy critically, narrowing her almond-shaped eyes. "What about your duty to your duchy? Does duty mean nothing you?" Unexpectedly, Percy smiled. "Ah, I'd expect such a grand question from the squire of the Heir of the Tamorin Empire." "But I could have stolen these," Fox ventured, a hidden challenge in her voice. "Oh, with a build like yours -- and such a magnificent one, I daresay -- I don't think there's much chance in that. Take some special tailoring to make those duds to fit so well, what? Although, speaking of duty, you're a bit far afield and in some rather non-Tamorin company yourself." "You still haven't answered the question," Fox observed. "Ah, well, duty is as duty does, isn't it? I know they'll catch up with me sooner or later. No Duke of Tania has taken the seat before the age of forty, and I certainly don't intend to be the first, I daresay. I'm sure I'll get the stick and have to do some horrible impot or other when they finally get me. After all, I can't be responsible for the deficiencies of my elders, what?" "How did you know I was from Tamorin?" Fox said, as she replaced her right glove. "The wonders of heraldry, my dear! The crest on your glove tells the tale. Black double-eagle -- my, I do like those Eastern eagles, what? All those fussy little feathers -- and the mark of the first son. And a white belt, sign of a squire of the East." He gathered up his silk, needle and jar with a swift motion and began move away. "Observation and deduction! The golden keys of scientific query!" "Scientific query," Fox muttered under her breath, as she picked up a nearby bowl. She could hear Dahlarin and Gernodt arguing softly about something, but she didn't pay it any attention. Lifting the lid again, she stirred the thick . . . whatever it was. It smelled good. She spooned up the food and filled her bowl, settling down to eat. Just as she swallowed her first mouthful, she suddenly had a thought rush across her brain. Her pale green eyes widened, and she looked up at Percy. "This . . ." she pointed at the bowl with her spoon, "doesn't have any Newts in it, does it?" "But how does it taste?" Percy said, clearly enjoying her discomfiture. Fox rolled her tongue around in her mouth, as if deciding. "I've had worse," she said cautiously. "Wounded!" Percy exclaimed, clutching at his heart. "That is my own sainted Nannie's recipe! And I'll have you know, my dear, that there is little found in the bounty of Nature more nutritious than your very own Triturus Orientalis, found only in the caves of the desert isles in the East -- your own Tamorin being among them!" He winked broadly at her. "But rest that pretty head of yours, my girl. The only meat there is venison. Now do you find it more to your liking?" Fox shrugged noncomittally, but she did take another mouthful. Before she swallowed, she said, "I doubt the Prince of the Dark Sidhe would like a plateful of fried Triwhatever Orientalis put in front of him at the Midwinter Feast," she observed. "Hmm," Sir Percy mused, "The Prince of the Dark Sidhe. The old boy always struck me as a bit of a whinger, meaning no offence. Seemed to have learnt his fencing from one of those chaps afraid to give a princely student a right good whacking when needs must." Unexpectedly, Fox laughed aloud. It was not necessarily a pleasant sound. "His son gets 'a right good whacking' every now and again, particularly if we're paired for sparring that day." She smiled broadly. "His name is Dies. That's 'dee-ES', not 'dyes'. He's fussy about that, you know. He's my squire-brother; we're both Selmarak's squires." She shook her head, and ate another spoonful of stew. "In the seven names of the God, he fights with a _rapier_." Fox shut her mouth abruptly, looking decidedly uncomfortable for a fleeting second before suppressing it, gazing indifferently at her stew. She cursed herself; she had grown so comfortable chatting with Percy, she had fancied herself back in Moonfang, swapping stories in the tavern. There she was herself, an entirely known quality. Only one major god worshipped in the Eastern Empire had seven names. An unforgiveable slip. She did not notice the sudden, sharp glance Percy gave her from the corner of his eyes, but to her immense relief he did not pursue it. She desperately hoped he was not as familiar with Eastern religion as he seemed to be with Eastern rulers. "'It's not what you've got but where you stick it', as Dad used to say," Percy said cheerfully, " but then that's why the family got rid of him, because he couldn't keep his hands on his own equipment, as it were." "My curse," Fox murmured, almost to herself as she ate another mouthful of stew. "Why do I always seem to run around with people who quote sayings by their relatives?" ---------------------------------3101790923245756771395827634--