The First Few Pages from Book Ten in the Vow Unbroken Series

Greetings and good tidings to all and sundry!

This will not be a long post, but it is a glimpse at how I draft my stories.  Mainly, I have a dream of a single scene, and in the very first pass of a story, I attempt to capture that scene and build on it until I pass out and dream the next scene, hoping I've written far enough to keep up with the story as it unfolds.  Needless to say, this is both a very messy and extremely exciting method of story-craft.

So these are the first few paragraphs of Book Ten, which reflect, in their way, the scene as it appeared in my mind back in 2016 when I first tried to keep up with the narrative unfolding behind my eyes.  There are a great many ways to go about building a story, and a fundamental understanding of what makes a good story good, a solid ending satisfying, of how to designate acts or what is sought in the Hero's Journey, this understanding helps immensely in the fifth, third, twelfth, and thirtieth passes.  Probably some of the other passes, too.  In the first and second passes, though, for me, it's all about capturing the motion of the scenes.  A great deal gets cut, as well it should, but the end result is absolutely gorgeous.  Well, to my mind it's rather captivating, but tis possible that I am biased in favor of my creations.

That said, I claim these words as my own, but I do hope that they inspire.  Best wishes to all who find a bit of passion in the words they write, in the worlds they read into existence.

The first two birds of Spring pulverized the bark of a Lonerip tree, revealing the coarse, bitter sap beneath.  Xiezjiit jogged a bit slower, taking in the noises of the forest and seeking their absence to guide him away from his handler and the other hunters.  It was inevitable that they would catch him, but this year’s oldest cubs were vicious when he failed to tire them out. It would be far, far better, for all concerned, if they were panting and struggling to catch their breath by the time his and their paths crossed this afternoon.  

Of course, it was necessary to lose his scent and send them on a wild chase, so he slipped free of his long-sleeved tunic and bent low to pick up a heavy rock.  The wind blowing as it was, he intended to hide the garment such that his mad scramble down the face would be considered a false trail, buying him precious moments as he ran along the path knowing that the scent would carry.  Rising, he turned to find a good path through the snow-dappled landscape and blinked twice in surprise as a face nearly the mirror to his own stared back at him.

Leaning slightly to the left, Xiezjiit was relieved to find his doppelganger did not follow suit, instead stiffening and assuming a highly regal glower and shifting his weight such that his disapproval was rendered neat.  The exact cut and design of the gaunt form before him, along with the hair a hue of orange so pale as to almost be white, revealed his lineage to be of the Troai’phai’lecinae heritage and a fellow Sophieliescent* elf. More importantly, Ptielieren recognized one of the few Guardians not of his own family’s direct line.  It was highly aberant to employ such tactics, but, aeons ago, the number of royals had exceeded the number of available guardians by six. Of those six, only two bloodlines still held the privileged honor of guarding heirs to the royal line, but they had never been particularly prolific.

Bowing with the old decorum and by way of formal introduction, Xiezjiit kept his ears open for pursuit while Ptielieren pinpointed where the heir must be.  He accepted a similar motion from the other and rose quickly, cutting off any sort of pleasantry that might otherwise have been exchanged.

“You and your ward are in grave danger.”  Ptielieren heard the Vexra spill from his lips and, though there was no outward sign of this, cringed at the lack of decorum.  Of course his fellow elf could not be expected to understand even the basest of terms in the tongue. He’d been rude enough that a duel may well be iminent, and this stranger was armed and unfetter while he had naught but familiarity with the terrain and a negligible fraction of his arcana at the draw.

“As too have we been these many weeks.”

Xiezjiit’s brow twitched at the words.  The Troai’phai’lecinae’s accent was thick, and his tonal control erratic, but it was clear the Guardian could speak the Feral Common tongue.  A distant crack as of a tree being hit with a stick was warning enough of how dire this situation had just become, so Xiezjiit gestured for the pair to step forward into the center of the path.  His rival Guardian seemed hesitant and the heir made neither sound nor movement to betray her position, but there was no time for such political games at this.

“You will need to submit to the leader of this den.  He is keen to prove himself a competent leader, and already there are some of our race here.”  Xiezjiit glanced again in the direction of the hunters and was a little surprised that this newcomer did not pick up and dart off into the underbrush.  Xiezjiit would have stalled for them, but, if not this den, their scent was sure to be picked up. It was uncanny that they two had made it so deep into bugbear territory, truth be told, without having been consumed, but it was plain that the Guardian, at least, had not paused for rest nor taken the least sustenance in several weeks.  It was lucky this winter had been mild in its easing, though. The den had been preparing for torrential flooding and high winds come the heart of Spring, though how they could predict such a thing was beyond the elf.

“Tell me how.”

No muss, no fuss, no hesitation.  Xiezjiit again gestured for the pair, the one still hidden, to step into the middle of the path.  This time, his fellow guardian turned and crossed a short distance, helping a figure to rise. She was beautiful, with the starlight hair of her line and eyes that could have held constellations in check.  Her stomach, however, revealed her to be somewhere in the fourth trimester, which meant, potentially, trouble. Xiezjiit crossed through the bushes with his bare feet taking the brunt of an upturned stick, but he’d shouldered worse pains and kept his pace often enough that he doubted either could spot his injury.

The woman accepted his aid with a glance to her guardian, stepping lightly with shoes that had once been fine and only remained of any form due to inlayed arcana.  Her Guardian revealed a set of knee-high boots and a belt that likely had carried them much farther than mere stamina could have done, as well as some fifteen hidden daggers and two blades holstered one atop the other.  From the array, it was plain enough that the Troai’phailecinae favored his right arm to an almost detrimental proportion.

“Kneel, both knees in the dirt.  Both of you. Her a little behind.”  Xiezjiit cast his head back around, knowing the silence of the two birds out in the woods a sign that he was likely surrounded, the hunting party finding their positions and observing.  He noted, too, that the Guardian was translating for his Ward, which meant she did not speak Vexra. He knelt as well, keeping his head up and his haunches down as he scanned for a telltale cast of shadow, a tree that seemed too much a tree.  “They’re not going to be gentle. Don’t fight back. Kiss the Boss’s feet if things get too rough.”

Glossary for Book 7

As I go through my second stage of drafting, which basically entails reading a piece after having  set it down long enough to have forgotten or misremembered vast swaths of the material, I comb through and add or subtract large chunks of text. Mostly I add, to the tune of about 40k new words. Generally, the third stage nets a gain of about 20k-30k words, and subsequent drafts cut the final word count significantly. 

Presented is my present working glossary for Book 7 in A Vow Unbroken, which is woefully behind my personal release schedule. I blame the hyper-full load of classes this semester ;)

Glossary:

Diachael Berry Croissants -- Diachael berries are a berry grown exclusively in gardens drafting energy directly from each city’s deep-tapped lae-lines.  Each bush requires seventeen years to bear fruit and requires three gallons of distilled water each day, but once these plants begin to produce, their branches must be carefully enchanted or they will break under the strain of the perenial bounty. In many cities, these berries are so plentiful that they are enjoyed even by common elves, as they do not denature under heat and so retain a fresh, bursting quality after cooking.  Croissants and scones are traditional vessels for these berries.

Distilled Anguish -- a product of fusing the aetherial soul of a body with the sympathetic nervous system, then stimulating extreme stress. An amber-colored liquid coalesces at specific key points and can be collected. This substance is used for a great number of magic items and arcana nullifying equipment.

Echitoaxt -- Urterkt for the small capillaries of energy produced by and designed to sustain the world. These are what the taproots in the center of the cities seek to draw and what was, by and large, destroyed when the Spiral Throne was erected.

Elienste -- While there are many languages that share the basic underlying lexus and alpha-numerics collectively referred to as Elvish, Elienste is the accent associated with the mercantile elite. As such, and unlike other accents exhibited by those who natively speak one of the Elvish tongues, Elienste has become the accent of satire, the proverbial sound of the oppressive Civilized state.

Enthesine tea -- A soothing infusion of leaves which have first been lightly fermented then rolled and dried.

Neotomarian -- a relatively rare race with features akin to enormous rats, most range from thirty to fifty pounds and can be found working in conjunction with trolls and in proximity to hobgoblins. Though perfectly capable of understanding a number of languages, they can most easily replicate the language of trolls, often speaking no more than one or two words of Vexra or other languages.

Paxokt -- An Urterkt term for a specific type of trek-breaker restraint. This and variants are designed to prevent direct downward pressure from being applied to a region, most generally the heel, arch,or ball of the feet.

Rieshthaineisthelian -- Also known as Riverdance, is one of Xiezjiit’s cousins

Resplendance -- One of Xiezjiit’s uncles

Second -- Originally, this was a term used exclusively by orcs to denote the “second in command” of the absolute highest ranked orc in a given region.  Originally, this implied conflict or a formal acknowledgement of the leader’s primary rival, but such meanings have fallen by the wayside. Presently, the term has been adopted into many cultures, is used to describe a range of functions, and is associated with “chief bodyguard” and the like. It is also somewhat common for an orc to offer the term to a hobgoblin or ogre in mixed bands to help facilitate peacful cooperation.

LANGUAGES: Languages are categorized and broadly defined in this nation as having a set alpha-numeric base different from other languages, different pronunciations, and closely tied to a specific culture.  Dead languages and dialects are described as sub-categories of these base languages. The given list is not exhaustive of all languages spoken in the nation, but is inclusive of some of the more common languages.

Celecaunic -- base language of all celenicics

Elvish -- base language of all elves

Krawral -- base language of all bugbears in this region

Teultic -- base language of all goblins in this region

Urterkt -- base language of all orcs

Trek-Breaker -- trek-breaker is an adjective applied cuffs, greaves, shackles, fetters, or other restraints are designed to cause discomfort, pain, or direct injury, depending on make, to individuals who move at a rate faster than a slow shuffle or in such a manner that their wrists are not held close together. Occassionally, trek-breaker describeschoke-collars with blunted inward-facing spikes.

Phrases: These are approximate translations, as some direct translations would read as utter gibberish to English ears. They follow as closely as is reasonable.

“Cy’vaitette ne’vailiesthenne Ptailierensylvcois X'Faineinzealeanii d’oiyearieve sien’trovealiace.”  -- Of and regarding my title in the context of rapid identity and excluding allowance for epithets or acknowledgement of alternate and potentially more illuminating names, my lineage can be traced from the X’Faineinzealeaniii line to the individual marker of Ptailierensylvcois.

Cast of Characters:

The leader went by Drakot; his Second by Redail, which was clearly a nickname; and the two other orcs by Takaam and Oxtok.  The mutt across the table went by Ahran and the goblin was Matupzu. The one talking introduced himself as Djinn and the mutt Xiezjiit had kept shocking was Satoam.

Drakot: Dark reddish brown, very large. Orc

Redail: skin akin to 2:1 mix of black and grey sand, deep blue sunken tattoos. Ogre

Takaam: Dark bluish grey skin. Orc

Oxtok: Skin the color of wet red brick. Orc

Ahran: Purplish brown skin. Orc mutt

Matupzu: 174338P-1485. Goblin

Djinn: Aberrant mutt. Orc-hobgoblin-human hybrid: Black and mauve

Satoam: muscular, slow reflexed, former mine-worker, skin yellowish grey. Orc Mutt

Ethics

Ethical Author Practices

An instructor gave the class a link to a website on Ethics specifically aimed at authors, and I feel compelled to share my introspective findings. Before I truly dive into this post, I want to be upfront and honest about something: I use a pen name, and my reasons for choosing to do so are personal and reflect long discussions with my family, who represent the primary reason for my adoption of this. Kendra is my honest and genuine first name, but Namednil is assumed and applied consistently to all non-scholastic works.




The concept of ethics and ethical behavior is one that "feels" simple while in practice is nuanced and complex. How else could so many "villains" regard themselves as good, justified, righteous, or beyond corruption? How else could the just and virtuous fall? In real life applications, the goal is always to be a good person and to uphold personal moral values, but "personal" is not always good enough. 

To combat the sudden onslaught of doubt in my own ethical standards, I began reviewing every piece of advice through the lens of the Alliance of Independent Authors' posted guidelines, and while I felt moderately comfortable with my standard of ethics in regard to MOST of the mentioned criteria, I felt a little nervous about the transparency of reviews for my book on Amazon. In response to this, I went through my reviews on Amazon and posted comments revealing fellow authors and friends, which left me just a touch sad.  

While the reviews are still 100% valid -- I don't, as a general rule, condone asking for anything specific in reviews save that people be open and genuine about their feelings regarding the book and its unsuitability for most children -- it would be much better if the vast bulk of reviews came from individuals with whom I have had minimal -- if any -- contact. I have further resolved, as part of my own ethical standards, to abstain from specifically asking individuals if they would review my book, despite knowing that this is a common practice in the profession. It is highly flattering to receive reviews, and specific reviews, even they are negative, can be highly beneficial marketing, especially when the complaint of one is the treasure of another. Still, after having reviewed these guidelines, I feel somewhat less comfortable overtly requesting reviews, as the bias of asking friends and peers in the field is to slant toward more positive expression and regard.

When it comes to ethics, no singular guide will cover every contingency, but it is a wise practice to periodically do self-checks. After all, good intentions can pave any number of paths, not all of them leading in the best directions. Best wishes and an ethical day to everyone! I'll try to get a word doodle up in the next week or so.

A Cheaterishly Easy Way To Start

Starting that First Scene

I rarely do this for my final passes with my books, but it's such a delight, when determining when or where to start, to begin with the protagonist opening his or her eyes.  Another great start is to open with the protagonist in the process of falling.  This little word doodle does both, and I think it's going to morph into a steamy romance.
Folks ask about that, actually.  In my main stories, I'll have a general idea of where I want the first draft to end, but I don't usually know even an eighth of all the details that must unfold. I like to think this makes a lot of my work feel more organic, and the method works because I'm very easy-going about changing things -- even big things, like reversing whether the protagonist is morally in the right or morally corrupt. So this reads to me like it might become a romance, but I genuinely don't know.  It's a doodle, a short doodle, and it's non-canonically linked to my main series, A Vow Unbroken, the first book of which is Borehole Bazaar.  Most of the major cities have underground (often quite literally) combat arenas, bankrolled by the Civilized races but ostensibly run by Hard races, which are often the only individuals to take a fall when the government decides a raid is in order. This basic backstory plays into this scene and helps to make it real.  There are doubtless typos, but sketches aren't meant to be masterpieces, just the foundation upon which great works are drawn.
Without further dithering, allow me to present Toriavai’elle.

Toriavai’elle

Toriea’ahaeisthvaielle Eilevehe’inetten felt the wind race past her face, consciousness prickling as instinct shrieked that falling was dangerous. His arms didn’t respond more than to twitch and tense, but her eyes flicked wide and her mouth opened to grasp air and suck it in, hoping to arrest her descent.

Impure, rough-hewn granite, dark-yellow light as from very inexpensive and low-quality torches, deep shadows behind him, and straw rushing up to kiss him. Toriavai’elle crumpled into the straw, feeling the dry material like splinters in her breasts, on her wrists, her shoulders, and her right cheek. The straw was a full four inches deep and thickly matted, the fresh layered atop the degraded, a heady mix of black mold spores, salt, and old blood wafting up in a seeming cloud. She breathed deeply, glad of this familiar aroma and the relative safety it represented.

A loss. She couldn’t afford many of those, and it was something of a miracle that she’d been healed enough to return to her little home. It had been almost six months since she’d last failed to see a battle through, and then she’d had to stitch her own wounds closed, to wrap the injury in pitch to keep it from going septic. Figuring out what the last sequence had been was always the roughest part, but it was an important exercise.  Replaying the latest battle in her head kept her sprawled long enough that the guards wouldn’t feel nervous.

Two kalutai, both young enough to be pups, and they’d been using live bronze axes, the blades irregularly curved but matched and about a foot wide. Her blade had snicked fast, and she’d been winning.  Then, her blade poised over one, waiting for the judges to whistle in acknowledgement of the first “kill,” the other had pulled some sort of rock or oversized bullet and, bereft of sling, had lobbed this at her.  There had been a cold sensation, as though icey fire burned through her veins, and then nothing. Falling and straw. She rolled onto her side and blinked at the wall a few times, studying the shadows that stood somewhat over her.  

Well, she’d replayed the fight in her head, and prone wasn’t doing her any favors. She sat up slowly and ran an arm sideways over her breasts as though stretching.  The brutes who ran this complex viewed all elves to be female, regardless of genitalia. Since the majority of the fighters down here were, to her point of view, male, her reticence while shirtless was seen as an amusing anomaly. She’d be granted a shirt in a little bit, once she’d “come down” from the violence, but in the meantime, the guards who kept an eye on things wanted to avoid the chance that she concealed shivs or the like.

“You docile, kit?”

A new turn of phrase. The war raged outside, leastwise as near as she could tell from what little rumors filtered through to the blocks, but the pieces fit together cleanly. Fox kit was preferable to elver or sliver or slipknot, though, so she nodded twice, slowly, and brought her other hand to her forehead, breathing through the rising nausea.  She was not doing well, and practice tonight would be terrible.

“Tre’eistrein nenienyewiaze tette noisievellenia.” She stopped, harting how slurred her native tongue was. Instead, she dropped to Vexra. “My fody achieas.”  Shaking her head to clear it, she tried again, hitting the harder, more guttural sounds with exaggerated care. “My body aches.”

“You went down hard.”  The largest guard between her and the torchlight squatted down, signalling by his body language that he had this situation handled.  The shadows moved a little to the side, their postures relaxing and a few backing into the open hallway. None left just yet, but she didn’t feel up to being the least bit difficult. Besides, Mogdun was a former champion down here, one that had bested her some twenty times before he’d retired from the rounds.

“I’m not… I, uh, my arm”  She looked at where her skin was mended. The fight was fuzzy, but she recalled an early blow. It should have been bruised much more heavily by now. Looking down at her chest, black lines spanned under her pale bluish white skin. Albinism had both saved and doomed, but at least infection and contusions were easy to track.

“Unregistered weaponry means your opponents were fined.” He tossed a leather and canvas collar with bright flowers embroidered into the side from his belt to the straw by her side. Toriavai’elle buckled this around her neck, clearly marking that she was bound to a lifetime circuit.  Theoretically, this piece of equipment was the only difference between her and everyone else on this block. Theoretically, racial tensions, grudges, and the difference in status between eternal contracts, like hers, and the more standard three year contracts made absolutely no difference to how folks were treated.  Theoretically.

“Fiannaed?”  The word caught in her throat, so Toriavai’elle switched to words that didn’t hurt her larynx.  “Bead into payment?”

He reached out a hand, his eyes both wary and friendly. “Beat, little fox. The Uxt is a bit lower, the terminal T hits on the mid-tongue, not the tip.” His fingertips and palm reached the top of Toriavai’elle’s head, the fingers sliding through her hair as he made a ruffling motion.  She tolerated this for all of six seconds before striking with the edge of her wrist. Despite calling on her innate arcana, the sharp edge of high-velocity, highly pressured water failed to properly manifest, instead splishing his arm wetly. He chuckled, holding his arm in place firmly, reinforcing that he had bested her so many times where her sole victory had been a matter of luck and reckless overreach. She let her wrist go slack for a moment, her hand slumping down around his forearm for a half-breath.

He withdrew before she could launch herself again, which was preferable for her. Here, rolling over and showing weakness in response to bullying was not acceptable, and these little teases and feints were always brief. The guards got in trouble if they injured the entertainment, which was part of why they went around in packs all the time, but their pins were gruff, humiliating affairs. She was glad he didn’t press.

“Yeah, they were broke, so it’s another match or two. Eager little pups.”

“Exotic.”

“Heh. We’ll you’re solo and theirs fight as a pack, so I guess they would ping exotic.”

“They’re common?”

“Half of Third Block here, two thirds at some of the other points on the circuit.” He motioned for her to lean forward and checked that her collar was snug but not constricting, moving his hand up as though to ruffle her hair again.  She jerked back and to the side, eliciting a smirk and a few chuckles from the watching crowd. Mogdun stood slowly and paced the perimeter of the cell, running his eyes over her scant few belongings and patting the spare trousers, tunics, undershirts, leathers, and foot-wraps as he passed.  At the doorway, he squatted to lift and shake each of her four pairs of boots and her two pairs of slippers out. Satisfied with this basic inspection, he offered what had to be a parody of a proper bow and stepped out, the pack of guards falling in around and behind him, the last pushing the door so it caught as he left.

That was something she’d found surprising when she’d first arrived all those years ago. Each cell door locked from the inside.  The guards could unlock the cells, sure, but other prisoners couldn’t. It was her safe place, leastwise so long as she didn’t go out of her way to irk any of the other contract fighters. She waited until the band had walked some distance off before laying back in her nest.  Accomodations for lifetime contracts like hers were sparse, grungy even, but they were something she could claim. Closing her eyes, she focussed on her breathing, meditating right up until she fell asleep.

Opening her eyes and stretching, Toriavai’elle stood up and stretched out her legs, doing a little jog in place, glad to feel her body respond quickly. From the bars near the door, a familiar voice hailed her from the bars at the front of her little alcove.

“Good morning to you, too!”

Startled, Toriavai’elle backed the farthest shadows of her home and covered her ches, turning to offer no more than her profile to this potential threat.  Tassept laughed and backed up a few paces, a hand up in mock surrender as the hobgoblin, with exaggerated gestures, covered his eyes with his creepily long fingers, the fine muscles holding his webbing down and out of the way making the gesture artful.  From the shadows, Toriavai’elle squeaked out at him in Vexra, not sure if he was alone enough for her to really lay into him about how creepy it was that he’d watched her sleep.

“Turn around, you big bully!”

Laughing with relaxed ease, he faced the far wall, though it was obvious he was going to sneak a peek.  Toriavai’elle didn’t mind overmuch -- they were lovers, after all -- but she wasn’t about to let him get away with this. When next they trained, he’d hit the sand and sawdust  hard. Crossing to where her undershirts hung, she slipped one over as quick as she could, screaming invectives when her head popped through the hole and, as expected, his neck was twisted to catch a better look.  He visually acosted her as she place her tunic over, too, and and sat down cross-legged to watch her every movement as she wrapped her feet and slid her toes and heels into a pair of slippers.

“By stars ablaze, it has been too long.”

“Keep it in your pants.”  Toriavai’elle pulled a shoelace from a boot and pleated her hair, tying this securely before settling the mass under her tunic.  “It’s been three days.” Turning back to her superpositioned layers of hay, she fished around for a six inch box and drew out a dental hygiene kit. Technically, it was contraband, but the guards didn’t much care. As long as she didn’t develop a reputation for causing trouble or starting fights without cause, having a few odds and ends around her haven was both expected and privately encouraged. Between brushing a thin under-gum stain remover and flossing, she continued. “And you’ve got, like, two other lovers.”  She crossed to a wide-mouthed urn and spat into the void, wondering for the hundredth time where the portal at the base transported her refuse. “So don’t even think of trying to guilt me about pressure buildups.”

He laughed hard at that and turned fully around, his bare abdominals raised prettily, his striking brilliant red and dark, almost black, midnight purple markings drawing her attention and keeping it. “Yeah, yeah.  Can’t blame a guy for trying, eh?” She ripped her eyes away and crossed to her front door, pushing it open. The door stayed wide and would remain wide until she returned. Anyone entering her quarters, for any reason, was grounds for removal from the block and a significant drop in the rankings.  

Tassept wasn’t particularly tall for a hobgoblin, standing at a steady six and a half feet -- seven when he stretched --  but the foot of difference between them was enough to mean no one questioned who would win in a contest of strength. He’d been here almost as long as she had, some eighteen years or so, and while he looked a little older, the fact that his race lived a bit longer than most Ferals made it easier for her to regard him as a friend and not a passing acquaintance.

“Swim?”  His eyes twinkled. The bath house for this block were usually empty, given that there were only a few hobgoblins in the mix. It was where they’d met, as she’d created a vortex to allow air to come down to her lips and nose while meditating near the bottom of the thirty-foot pool and he’d done laps overhead. When she’d thought the room empty, she’d surfaced and he’d freaked out, absolutely startled out of his gourd that she’d been down there.  When he’d calmed down a bit, he’d fake-bowed toward the water and dived in. That had been the first time anyone in the block had tried to communicate with her, and she’d felt compelled to dive in after.

Their friendship had blossomed on that moment.

“Yeah. I feel a little fraille, though.”

“Sound it, catzeye.”  He started walking down the hallway and she half-walked, half-loped after him. His place in the rankings was only marginally higher than hers, but those numerals mattered down here.  If she ran ahead of him, the social order demanded they spar and he pin her violently, make her cry out for the crowds. She made mistakes every now and again, and he was usually careful not to hurt her overmuch, but mussing about with relative ranks bore zero tolerance.

They walked down the fifteen by fifteen rectangular hallway, deliberately not looking into any of the cells. These were places where folks went to feel safe, to catch a moment alone or to heal from grievous injury.  To weep or show weakness, too. At the huge brass doors, a pack of guards operated the levers, ignoring Toriavai’elle and Tassept. To them, this was just a boring part of the job.

Out here, the first of three cozy thirty by sixty meal rooms, complete with a ten-foot-diameter central fire and a free-hanging chimney shoot with a set of crossbars some thirty feet up the flue, revealed some fifteen orcs and ogres milling about, snacking. Most were covered in sweat and dust, but that was common. Exercising, practicing techniques, training muscle memory, and sparring were constants down here. A few orcs made lewd suggestions, so she ducked her head and tried to look small.  These were friendly little exchanges, but her reputation was for being skittish right up until contact was made. Then she was a dirvish of arcana and violent contact. Only one orc was permitted to touch her, and that only because he was mentally unstable and didn’t understand that the core principle of sparring or establishing rank was to keep the opponent alive and relatively uninjured despite their defeat.

Tassept crossed to a few of his friends, leaving Toriavai’elle to wander close to the central fire to warm her hands. Familiar forms drew close, asked after her health, and suggested that Otagt, her unstable lover, was very worried. She gave non-committal replies to the effect that she wasn’t as frail as she looked and that Otagt didn’t have to fret so. A few mocked her accent, and two shared their meals with her, mentioning that she was so slender the breeze from a well-swung blow could drop her. Laughing at the absurdity of this, Toriavai’elle ate heartily all the same.

Finally, Tassept moved toward the next room down, spurring Toriavai’elle to jog after.  There, the top-ranked fighter, an orc with tannish purple skin and dark green hair down to his waist turned from his conversation to glare down at her.  Toriavai’elle startled and stumbled back against the wall, making herself look as small and non-threatening as she possibly could. The brute kept her pinned against the wall with his gaze for a full eight-count, the requisite for a physical pin pointing out an unacceptable behavior, then “let her up” via turning back to her conversation.  That orc had never approached her, never touched her, never verbally threatened her, but she knew terror whenever his attention alighted upon her form.

The only other elf in the block strode directly up to her and began matching the sound of his words to a braggart’s swagger and a deep, abiding sneer. His actual words didn’t match his tone and body language, though.

“Are you okay? They had to intubate you with one of those weird tube-like sugelancas, and your beau broke the wall to try and kill the fuzzbacks.”

Putting a haughty, insulting sneer into her own voice and mein, Toriavai’elle replied, hands on her hips and head canted, showing her utter contempt for the other elf’s martial prowess.  It was all an act, but things went downhill fast if for elves that seemed to be in cahoots.

“Yeah, I’m fine enough. Heading to the pools to recharge. What do you mean he broke the wall?”

“The bars weren’t giving, so he tried the mortar. Crowd went wild, so he’s just on cooldown, not iso.”

Ah, well that was good.  Her unstable lover was downright hazardous after a stint of isolation. “That’s useful information. Shove me so I can pin you?”

“Kay.  Coming in left side.”

The kick was high and she was ready, so the catch, pivot, lock, and joint manipulation looked smooth and seamless. Once he was floored, she twisted hard to the left until an audible pop filled the room.  A few figures tensed, but most gathered round with expressions of amusement writ plain. He flashed fire at her, making her release his foot, and rolled cleanly to his feet. She called out her next move in their shared Regal Elvish, throwing the sounds like she insulted him for relying on arcane flash to mask that she instructed him on the next sequence.

After some eighteen clashes, he pinned her and looked up for confirmation of victory.  The top-ranked gave the whistle and she was released to gasp for breath and massage her throat. She’d landed a few harder-hitting points that would sit with her fellow elf for a few days, but that was as it should be. Since this wasn’t a sanctioned bout, no change to the rankings occurred, but her reputation for fighting mean was maintained while the male suffered no injury from having lost to a recovering featherweight.

Tassept waited for her to fall in before berating her every flaw during the tussle.  This was common courtesy down here, and she offered polite questions, maintaining the ruse that she must subconsciously telegraph her moves to others of her kind. They crossed quickly down the corridor leading to the wooden and heavily padded weapon-practice courtyard and ducked, at long last, into the bathing rooms.

The room echoed with the slosh and flow of water. This was her safe place, her sanctuary, a place where she could get away from everyone, where she was master and all others bent to her design. Architecturally, it was a perfect cube, with the door near the ceiling and a floating platform allowing her to step out of her slippers, stretch, and dry off after sessions.  Forty feet across, the water was roughly thirty feet deep, and each wall was lined with a half-score torches, the sconces set just barely above the water-line. Darting about in the water swam a multitude of small detritivorous cave fish, most of which flashed bioluminescence as they swam and fed. A steady stream of water was fed in through deliberate-looking fissures in the ceiling above, and fissures had been carved into the floor below. The place felt magical. It was her haven, a place where the chronic stress and fear of her hour-to-hour life held no bearing.

After checking that no eyes pried, Tassapt shoved her playfully. Toriavai’elle turned the kinetic energy into a graceful dive and slid below the surface, luxuriating in her element, basking in the feel of current

Catching Cultures

In writing fantasy, one of the absolute most difficult things to do is to relay how different cultural norms interact.  Once I know exactly how both cultures express the same sorts of things, it's much easier to play out the scene.  But to do this, I often find that I need an intermediary step.

About The Piece

The Word Doodle below illustrates how I often work out certain interactions.  In this case, the theme is acquiring language late in life and having a private tutoring session interrupted by a woman from a different culture.  This is non-canonical (as most Doodles are), but there are some terms to understand going in.  First, Hard vs Soft, Feral vs Civilized.  These are cultural designations (Jewish vs Hindu, etc) and so are capitalized to denote as much.  Most races fall cleanly into one or the other category by virtue of their birth (and some try to cross ranks and refer to themselves as one or the other).  Humans are the exception, and a Civilized (aka Soft) human might be likened to an upper-middle-class American (my culture of reference) while a Hard (aka Feral) human might be likened to someone a bit more poor backwoods or inner city, with gradients between.  Second, orcs are a race in the scientific aspect of the term, incapable of producing viable young with any race other than humans (humans in my settings can technically breed with anything), hobgoblins are a race, elves, humans, gnomes, etc.  Finally, the term "hybrid" refers to the offspring of a human and another race or between such a hybrid and another hybrid of like makeup.  "Hybrid" is generally considered polite until a specific designation is given while "mutt" is always mildly offensive.

When working out how two races will interact, I generally will first attempt a few word doodles with each race and a human intermediary.  This is one such doodle, and it ends rather abruptly because, as with many sketches, another thought caught my fancy.

Scratchings and Code

Aathuxt settled onto the crate, lifting the skin of liquid to his lips.  Ah, fermented pika, the liquified fats cut with alcohol and a bittering enzyme coated his tongue and clung to the base of his tusks.  Back home, the spices were set properly. Out here, these were calories. Bitter, ill-seasoned, lukewarm calories. A great way to finish off a twelve hour day hauling ossified wood for the softies.  He scowled, lifting the skin again.

“You game for another round?”  The hobgoblin more sagged than leaned into the wall, sweat glistinging from his peach and lime skin.  The elves who ran this rig were moderately kindly to those who worked themselves the bone and quick to “disemploy” anyone who slacked off during the shifts.  Disemployed meant no one else in the area would hire, but he and the floral-hued Oanuazai, along with a couple dozen others, had worked for the Le’yealt for half his life, a good fifteen-twenty years.  

“Yeah.  I’ma first shove for crick, though.”  Aathuxt imbibed the post-meat and closed his eyes.  Le’yealt. He’d heard about the ruckus to the south.  Here on the border, things were flacid. Limp. Neither side moving, both parties feigning total disinterest.  It couldn’t last. He worried a little after the Le’yealt kids. The elders only came this way but once every two or three years, and though they weren’t pleasant, they tried not to be rude.  Losing prospect, but still. Since this work couldn’t be done in the rainy season, Authuxt and the rest had taken plenty of side gigs and knew the exception the family’s respect represented.

“I ken.   Modur tagging?”

“Nah.  Bum leg.  Taking a quarter-moon.”  Aathuxt would be sure to swing by in a few days to check on his subordinate, but he didn’t much fancy giving up a chance at furthering his education.  Taking a final sip of the band, vaguely off-tasting slush. He massaged it, the leachate having separated from the more viscous liquid below. “Now’s good.”

Rising and straightening, the old friends shuffled off to the shanty down by the complimentary workers’ housing, joints creaking as they stretched spines, legs, and arms to normal ranges.  Around them, the season’s new hires and old, familiar faces all this deep into the summer, joked and smiled, their motions subdued with latent exhaustion. The shanty kept open from the sheer bulk of foot-traffic -- that and the fact that the patrons were their own enforcers.  Everyone here was poor, and the drinks and quick meals were purchased for only marginally more than the comprising components.

Slipping within, Oanuazai and Aathuxt crossed to a table nearish the back, central enough to avoid direct contact with the skirmish chiefs and suchlike that camped in the deeper gloom but far enough from the front to indicate that the excitement of a bar brawl was not desired.  Mindy, the human aspect of the trio who ran the hole, deposited two mugs of deeproot doer, a kind of fermented brew aged in iron-rich stone urns. She showed the current tab to Oanuazai who studied it briefly, requested a side of pickled squeakers. Mindy smiled across at Aathuxt in what he imagined was a flirtatious manner.  He jutted his chin with convivial intent, squaring his chest and leaning back invitingly as he did every night. Her laugh was as musical chimes driven by the wind -- and just as meaningful. Her smile for most patrons was just the same.

As she slipped away, Oanuazai shook his head briefly at the exchange and pulled out a piece of slate and a stick of ground, recompressed shell.  “You going or just show?”

“I wouldn’t refuse.  She’s small, though, so her nerves are sensical.  We eruditing?”

“The word doesn’t translate, but yes, we can start.”  The hobgoblin studied the flat of stone for a few moments before sketching out lines in a particular sequence.  Three horizontal, one vertical, and a quarter line up and to the right. Even before he turned the slate, Aathuxt recognized the strokes, calling the letter almost immediately.  His old friend smiled, wiped a hand across this surface, and drew out another. This one was simpler -- only three lines -- but it represented a root to a classification of words instead of just a sound.  Aathuxt had to study this facing the correct direction before the meaning came to him. He sipped at his brew at the smile and watched those peach and lime hands draw out another form.

“I never asked.”

“Hmmm?  Oh, that letter’s oyeh.  Used by goblins, mostly.”

“Mim.”  The vocalization accompanied another slight smile of affirmation as the compressed calcium mixture was cleared and reapplied.  “I never asked if you wanted help with that.” The angle of his friend’s wrist indicated Mindy. The ogre-hybrid and orc-hybrid, Txorajcha and Domass, were ejecting some young buck at speed.  The kid showed enough sense not to resist, either sensing or knowing that every soul seated nearby would route him much less gently if he so much as faked a swing. The lasses, for their part, removed him efficiently, Txorajcha even taking orders as she went.

“Not that I’m not interested, but I’m old.  Lass like that’ll want something with a bit more zest.”  Aathuxt studied the form emerging. It was one of the newer letters, one that he hadn’t quite mastered yet.  He guessed, not nearly certain, and himself smiled when he proved himself correct.

“Eyes scream of banked embers.”

The idiom didn’t translate well, but the pair had been friends enough that the words didn’t need to be the source of meaning.  Aathuxt tapped a tusk twice before shrugging and leaning forward, an arm surrounding his drink as he keyed his interest. “Since when?”

“Since this.”

Ah.  Writing was traditionally taught in the circles, the three or four elders sharing the skill with the dozen or so youngsters under their direct care, but his village was poor, desperate long before the celenicic enforcers razed it to ash and molten glass and metal.  Someone, somewhere, had raided the wrong coach, so all the local villages had burned. He suspected the culprit had been Soft with a band of hired thugs, but there was no way to tell. His childhood had ended long before it should have, his history interrupted just in time to find a day’s work and a solid meal with the Le’yealt clan.  It had always bothered him that he could not read, but until this last year, he’d never forced himself to make time to develop the skill.

“Why’s this of note?”
“No idea.  Novelty, bites.”  Oanuazai touched his pinky and thumb together, referencing an old proverb.  “But her smile’s different.”

“Seyah.  Makes a hard sound at the beginning, soft at the end, and is a root for terms involving carnage.”  Another smile and slate wiped clean. “Every tusk, web, rock, merc, and quick-pint plays at passing.  She’s cold and clean.”

“A pup in snow, but you’re thigh-high clover.”  Another symbol. This one was new, but it… ah, it was building on one he knew, had a root that he was confident he could guess, and the newest set of scratches… Aathuxt stared at the word for several long moments, trying out different possibilities until -- “Ah.  Grisa toxt. Root word was edge.”

“Very nice!  I wasn’t sure if you would get that one.”

“This letter.  What is it called?”  

The two discussed the new letter while Aathuxt practiced drawing it out on the back of the slate, flipping this over to double-check the exact details at each pass.  He was getting better at using the soft material to form these sorts of marks, but he knew his lettering would never be so good as that of his friend’s. Their discussion of this and tonight’s new symbols was cut short as Mindy set the platter of baby birds on the table between them.  Usually, Domass handled the serving of food, so this change felt highly notable. Aathuxt exchanged a glance with the hobgoblin before moving his hand, palm up to show he held no violent intent. Mindy quirked her head to the side, her smile somewhat in contrast to the furrows in her brow.

Humans were odd like that.  In many ways, their modes of emoting more closely resembled those of the more traditional Soft races, though their body language tended toward the Hard.  Aathuxt held the gesture longer than was standard, as he’d learned the Le’yealt required in non-verbal communications, then withdrew his hand and hefted his mug, lifting a leg onto the wide bench with his free arm tossed over the back.  He turned to Oanuazai and regarded the hobgoblin’s incredulous stare calmly. Mindy tittered and backed away, her cheeks flushing with blood as she moved to seat the next entrant. She wasn’t a threat, but the poorly repressed show of aggression was somewhat disheartening.

“You need help, ilzaeg.”  The slang was unfamiliar, but the tone was almost familial after so many years working the site together.  Decades, even. Aathuxt shrugged.

“She ran aggressive. It’s fine.  I’ve sired plenty.”

“No, she… wait right here.  Better yet, see if you can guess out owl on the slate.”  His friend rose smoothly, half a pickled squeaker in hand as he made his way to the front counter.  The two hybrids cut him short for a spade of breaths before allowing him to interrupt Mindy at her tasks.  She and he exchanged a few brief words before the lass came back over.

“So Mindy here is silver gilded.”  The human drew the edge of her lower lip into her mouth, the teeth slightly evidenced.  It was such a strange thing for a creature to do that Aathuxt found himself straightening a little, slightly bunching the muscles of his upper arms.  These popped in stark relief, the hard labor asked of them complementing his physical form nicely. She stared at his arms, then at his chest, her eyes scanning for weakness as they travelled a touch lower.  Aathuxt leaned forward, knowing he self-consciously squared himself for a fight even as he checked himself against truly overt shows of aggression. “But, uh, yeah. She’s definitely kitting to the foal.”

The deep slang flitted straight over the human’s head, but it clocked Aathuxt’s response cold.  Oanuazai was about as stable as schist in bedrock, elsewise Aathuxt would have suspected a farce.  Instead, he forced himself to believe his friend’s words over the evidence otherwise presented. “Working late?”

“Right, yeah.”  The hobgoblin took a seat and gestured with his hand for Mindy to take a seat beside Aathuxt.  “So Mindy here’s on a break for a bit.” The human scootched in, chewing on her lower lip a little more with blood at the surface of her cheeks and her pupils somewhat dilated.  She crossed her far leg over the near one and turned her body to settle a more squarely. Rather than give rise to these unfriendly, crassly challenging gestures, Aathuxt left his arm draped over the back of the bench and turned his attention back to the slate.

“This?”

“Mim.”  His hobgoblin resumed the quiz, interspersing lessons on new letter combinations.  The core concept that the parts added up to whole, complex words and thoughts had felt like magic right up until he’d started practicing.  Now, it was just a skill at which he had minimal practical experience. Mindy, meanwhile, began edging closer, closer, closer, until her nearest hand drifted toward Aathuxt’s foot where it rested on the bench.  He paused in his lessons to glance down at her before dropping from the table’s shared Vexra to his native Urterkt, knowing the hobgoblin would be able to dredge meaning with moderate success.

“She’s aware of the fact that I could win this challenge flat out, right?”

His accent thick enough to choke on, Oanuazai responded in subdued, conciliatory tones, both hands resting palm up and wrist crossing over the other to relay friendship and relaxed amusement.  “She thinks she is acting in flirting.  She is to you attempting to cute.”

“Strange way of showing interest.  What’s she expecting in response?”

“Try gently tugging her hair.  I’ve seen human men do that during this kind of dance.”

Tapping the table twice with two fingers to indicate a noncommittal, somewhat incredulous response to this weird advice, Aathuxt reached down with his rested hand and lightly tugged Mindy’s yellowish hair, amused at the way she turned back to look at that hand as though unsure what to make of the action.  About to turn back to tonight’s lesson in sounding out words from the scratched signals, he startled as she shifted her body sharply to the side, leaning against his inner legs and resting an arm over his knee. Dropping back into Urterkt, he knew his words slogged through guttural alarm. “She suicidal?  What’s this?”

“I don’t know the term.  Simple words.”

“What, by all seventeen hells, is wrong, faulty, broken, or the problem with this human?  Is she asking me to end her?”

“OH!  No, don’t hurt her.  It to be a human thing of females.  She saying trust because make vulnerable.”

“What are you boys talking about?”  Mindy was looking up now, and it was plain from her voice and the slight change in scent that she was only now growing fearful.  Oanuazai splayed his fingers and moved his palms back and forth twice in front of his chest and neck, showing his upper teeth as he adopted the mid-range facial expressions of halflings, humans, and gnomes.  

“Oh, nothing you need to worry about, gemling.  Just guy talk is all.”

“Guy talk?”  She twisted around, her body entirely too close for comfort, even if the folds of her uniform relayed an absence of dagger or other hostility enabler.  “Oh. Uh. I must have… I thought, um.” She said something in Nieltre, the common language of Soft creatures, the capillaries in her cheeks flooded enough that actual heat radiated from these.  Across the table, the amusement was obvious, though the hobgoblin waited until she’d slipped half from the table to settle her fears, speaking in the same tongue as things were resolved. She paused, abusing her lower lip again with the tips of her fingers resting on the edge of the table, her palms set at ninety degrees from this.  She moved a bit closer again, though her movements were a touch more jerky, and she glanced up repeatedly. Her eyes locked on his tusks, and her tongue slid to the corner of her mouth.

The entire display was bizarre, but humans didn’t usually work the ossified stands, and there hadn’t really ever been need to fraternize. He returned to studying the slate, finding himself correct far more often than even yesterday.  All the while, Mindy kept moving a bit closer, leaning in and looking at the slate. He tried ignoring her, concentrating on alternately deciphering or scratching out the symbols. Finally, though, and largely because his coworker kept making doe-eyes as though he witnessed the fluffy excesses of affection, he curled over Mindy and lightly struck the back of her head with his forehead.  The connection was solid, but he was careful not to wound.

The human startled, issuing a yelp and spinning around, her eyes wide with fear but her nostrils flared in what was unmistakably anger. Oanauzai quickly interjected something in Nieltre, and her expression changed, softening.  She reached a hand up, her fingertips shaking slightly as she made to touch his rightmost tusk. Aathuxt pulled back a few inches, tensing his upper arms to clearly indicate that this was not an acceptable course of action. It was one of the few innate body-language tropes that translated between his employers and the rest of the race, but the human didn’t seem to understand how offensive the act was. She kept her hand where it was, clearly waiting for him to settle before continuing the ill-advised attempt.  He caught her wrist, careful not to squeeze at all, and lowered her hand back toward her lap, leaving his hand over this and her other hand to keep her from repeating her mistake.

“D’awwww.”  Oanauzai had his forearms crossed, his elbows on the table, and leaned his chin midway between the two as though he observed a scene as adorable as two pups discovering their first dead rabbit.  He couldn’t imagine he and the human were so cute as that, but it tempered his frustration. Oanauzai had much more experience with the race, after all, so perhaps things were going well.

“Starling, what winds do you hear?”  

“Starling is a term of endearment, kid.  The big scary orc’s not sure if you’re teasing him.”

That hadn’t even crossed his mind, but clearly today’s writing lesson was being abandoned.  Aathoxt reached close and pushed the slate back toward his friend, ruefully releasing a long, slow exhale.  “You’re enjoying this entirely too much.”

“Probably. But if she wanting a tradition experience, she have no chosen worse.”

“It’s rude to talk in code like that, you know.”

Aathoxt glanced down at the female -- woman, human lasses called themselves -- and relaxed his pressure, letting her pretend the victory of drawing her hand free.  She kept her hands in place, which was a rather odd choice. Across from them both, a peach and lime face grinned wildly at their apparent lack of understanding. “I’m just commenting on how awkwardly adorable you two are.  Don’t you worry about a thing.”

“I’m being awkward?  How so?” She gazed up again, her eye contact a bit too intense for a check-in.  “I thought this was how… am I being too forward?”

Oanuazai laughed sharply at that, netting a pair of matched glares.  He buried his mirth in his mug of doer, though his eyes screamed volumes.  Mindy glanced up after this, her face radiating puppy-like confusion.

“Don’t mind the jackdaw over there.  He’s one eye for mischief and keeps the other one closed.”  

“I thought he was your subordinate, like part of your crew.  You guys are always in here, and the gals said you worked the same areas. Doesn’t that mean he’s supposed to be all respectful and such?”

Alarmed that this slander might have been overheard, Athoxt raised a hand in partial surrender to the actual crew leaders before immediately correcting the human female.  “I don’t run a crew. The term’s specific. I’ve worked for the Le’yealt for a long time, and I help translate and relay their directives, and perhaps I outrank many, but I make no claim to a crew.”  He patted the human’s belly twice, figuring that, with such juvenile, puppish behaviors, this would be interpreted as friendly. Any orcine female would have been immediately offended, but Mindy didn’t seem to mind.  He wondered at that, not sure if the juvenile, playful aspect was a turnon or not. The human was obviously of age, but maybe she just liked being treated like a kid. Some folks did. No skin from his knuckles.

“Oh.  Sorry, I’ve only been working down here for a few months, and the courses didn’t really go over politics much.”  She pursed her lips, ending the expression by fidgeting and twisting free, her brows knitting. “So he outranks you?  They said you orcs don’t believe in equals.”

Oanauzai covered his chortle with a coughing fit, sipping at his brew to further mask his amusement. Aanuxt and the hobgoblin had sorted things nearly a decade past, and though more grizzled, there was no question of relative status between the old friends.  The orc regarded the human for a few moments, questing for motive and finding only ignorant friendlines. “We don’t. And he doesn’t, despite how much play I tolerate.” A bit of emphasis fell on this last word, triggering a fully unmasked giggle. The hobgoblin raised a hand in casual surrender and ducked his head, dropping to the niceties of rank even as he flaunted the privilege of long friendship,

The human looked from one to the other, smiling in a manner that betrayed her nervousness before opting to snuggle in closer, seeming to feel safer after having made herself entirely helpless.  This was something he’d observed with men and women at shanties during the rainy season and something that made very little sense. He forced himself to relax at this display, much though it seemed entirely unnatural and odd that she should so react.

“So, little starling, you are looking for synesthetic relaxation and not progeny, correct?”

“What? No.  Or, um, I mean, buy a girl a drink first.”

Aanuxt, perplexed by this, moved his mug closer to the lass.  She stared at it, equally confused, as Oanauzai covered both mouth and nose to poorly mask his mirth, his smaller, thinner tusks comically revealed to the side. Her expression changed suddenly and she laughed in delight, striking herself in the forehead with the flat of her palm. The goblin gesture seemed to have been used with exactly the same intent, indicating a mistake in thought or action paired with a mix of exasperation and bemused levity.  

“Sorry, I didn’t expect you’d be so direct.  I mean, I did, but, like, wow. That was a real question, right?  And I answered it wrong?”

“You stated a preference for prior payment.  I reciprocated via indicating the price I was willing to pay.  Did you not intend to begin negotiations?”

“Wait, did you just call me a--”

“-- Woa whoa, you two.  Let’s not kill this before it breathes.”  Oanauzai waved his hands animatedly, interjecting before the human could finish her thought.  “Let me step in here. Help smooth things out.” He drew his mug to his lips, realized it was empty, and gestured to the ogre and orc hybrids before continuing.  “Mindy, what my associate here is really asking is if you want to have a fling or if you’re looking for something a bit more permanent, more akin to a boyfriend. There are a TON of cultural differences between what he and you would call dating, but that is something that he’s suggesting is an option.  A one night stand, though, is much more convenient and is generally considered more flattering in his culture. So before we double down on the complementary schismogenesis here, take a moment to decide what you actually want.”

Mindy opened her mouth, her expression sharp and likely indignant, but stopped herself from speaking ill.  She instead smiled faintly, shaking her head and leaning against his inner thigh, a hand playing over his raised knee again.

“Maybe we can try one night, see if we like each other?”
The suggestion was decidedly weird, but beyond its inherent strangeness -- and the implied insult -- he could find nothing particularly objectionable with the proposal.  Aathuxt made a fist of the hand on the table and pounded the surface once, careful not to make the rapidly-diminishing tray of infant squab jump. The human lass startled and stared at his fist for a full three breaths