Tristran Thorn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tristranthorn) wrote2007-08-03 10:43 pm
tristranthorn) wrote2007-08-03 10:43 pm
Entry tags:
[020] - OOM - A distressing lesson about hitchhiking
There are times when Tristran cannot help but wonder desperately how Yvaine can stand to live without food. Surely, eating the darkness isn't enough to fill a stomache? Surely, not, because he is hungry. Ravenous, really. And he finds himself hungry often, more often than he'd really like.
So, Tristran is hunting for breakfast. There isn't very much in the way of things-to-eat, but there are definitely no signs of any magical doors anywhere; unfortunately, he is left to his own devices. He finds some young puffball mushrooms and a plum tree covered with drying, pruning fruit -- barely eatable, really -- and gathers them into his arms. He is about to merrily go along to another tree up ahead for something he thinks might be apples when a brilliant bird catches his attention.
It is as large as a pheasant with bright and colourful feathers in shades of reds, yellows and blues, and looks very much out of place in the slightly drably coloured meadowland, all earthly and green and brown. Dropping the few wrinkled plums back to the ground, Tristran carefully tries to approach the bird, slowly stepping with one foot then the next. He isn't particularly sure why, but it starts up in fear, hopping awkwardly and crying sharply in distress when he draws near.
"I won't hurt you," he murmurs gently, dropping to one knee, quite close now to the beautiful bird. He reaches out, noticing a silver chain -- all twisted and tangled around a particularly stubborn root -- attached to the bird's foot, making it very difficult for it to move.
Carefully, and with the expertise only a boy who's worked with animals can provide, Tristran unwinds the silver chain -- the bird quite calm now -- unhooking it from the root. His left hand gently strokes the bird's colourful plumage and he murmurs, "There you go...you can go home, now."
It makes no move to leave him. In fact, it looks up, piercing eyes staring into his face as though it can read his thoughts. It makes him feel self conscious, but he clears his throat. "Look," he says, "someone will probably be worried about you."
He reaches down to pick the bird up but before he can even straighten to his knees, something hits him, forcing him off balance for a moment.
"Thief!" cries a cackled old voice, moving to hit him again. Tristran dodges out of the way this time. "I shall turn your bones to ice and roast you in front of a fire! I shall pluck your eyes out and tie one to a herring and t'other to a seagull, so the twin sights of sea and sky shall take you into madness! I shall make your tongue into a writhing worm and your fingers shall become razors and fire ants shall itch your skin, so each time you scratch yourself--"
"There is no need to belabour your point," Tristran says to the old woman. "I did not steal your bird. Its chain was snagged upon a root, and I had just freed it."
She stops, mouth still slightly open, glaring at him suspiciously from below a mop of disheveled (and slightly greasy) iron-grey hair. Then she scurries forward without another word, mouth clamped shut, and picks up the bird. Tristran watches her the entire time, watches as she holds it towards her whispers something, and straining his ears to hear what exactly she said, only makes out the musical chirp of the bird.
The old woman's eyes narrow back to him. "Well, perhaps what you say is not a complete pack of lies," she concedes very reluctantly.
"It's not a pack of lies at all," Tristran confirms, but the woman and her bird are already nearly halfway across the glade. They seem to have completely forgotten his existence.
With a slight sigh and a shrug, he bends down to pick up his mushrooms and the wrinkled plums, before making his way back to the spot where he'd left Yvaine.
So, Tristran is hunting for breakfast. There isn't very much in the way of things-to-eat, but there are definitely no signs of any magical doors anywhere; unfortunately, he is left to his own devices. He finds some young puffball mushrooms and a plum tree covered with drying, pruning fruit -- barely eatable, really -- and gathers them into his arms. He is about to merrily go along to another tree up ahead for something he thinks might be apples when a brilliant bird catches his attention.
It is as large as a pheasant with bright and colourful feathers in shades of reds, yellows and blues, and looks very much out of place in the slightly drably coloured meadowland, all earthly and green and brown. Dropping the few wrinkled plums back to the ground, Tristran carefully tries to approach the bird, slowly stepping with one foot then the next. He isn't particularly sure why, but it starts up in fear, hopping awkwardly and crying sharply in distress when he draws near.
"I won't hurt you," he murmurs gently, dropping to one knee, quite close now to the beautiful bird. He reaches out, noticing a silver chain -- all twisted and tangled around a particularly stubborn root -- attached to the bird's foot, making it very difficult for it to move.
Carefully, and with the expertise only a boy who's worked with animals can provide, Tristran unwinds the silver chain -- the bird quite calm now -- unhooking it from the root. His left hand gently strokes the bird's colourful plumage and he murmurs, "There you go...you can go home, now."
It makes no move to leave him. In fact, it looks up, piercing eyes staring into his face as though it can read his thoughts. It makes him feel self conscious, but he clears his throat. "Look," he says, "someone will probably be worried about you."
He reaches down to pick the bird up but before he can even straighten to his knees, something hits him, forcing him off balance for a moment.
"Thief!" cries a cackled old voice, moving to hit him again. Tristran dodges out of the way this time. "I shall turn your bones to ice and roast you in front of a fire! I shall pluck your eyes out and tie one to a herring and t'other to a seagull, so the twin sights of sea and sky shall take you into madness! I shall make your tongue into a writhing worm and your fingers shall become razors and fire ants shall itch your skin, so each time you scratch yourself--"
"There is no need to belabour your point," Tristran says to the old woman. "I did not steal your bird. Its chain was snagged upon a root, and I had just freed it."
She stops, mouth still slightly open, glaring at him suspiciously from below a mop of disheveled (and slightly greasy) iron-grey hair. Then she scurries forward without another word, mouth clamped shut, and picks up the bird. Tristran watches her the entire time, watches as she holds it towards her whispers something, and straining his ears to hear what exactly she said, only makes out the musical chirp of the bird.
The old woman's eyes narrow back to him. "Well, perhaps what you say is not a complete pack of lies," she concedes very reluctantly.
"It's not a pack of lies at all," Tristran confirms, but the woman and her bird are already nearly halfway across the glade. They seem to have completely forgotten his existence.
With a slight sigh and a shrug, he bends down to pick up his mushrooms and the wrinkled plums, before making his way back to the spot where he'd left Yvaine.