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

Saying Too Much: More Fragments of Stories

The Struggle

One of the things that I most consistently struggle with is the concept that my readers will pick up everything I'm laying down and build their own castle, mote, bridge, and world from the pieces.  My inclination is to list all the ingredients in any given loaf of bread, to include every single pertinent detail to the flight trajectory of an unladen swallow (Monte Python reference, folks).  What I've found in my own reading adventures, however, is that the inclusion of such details is best limited to snapshots, to little moments where the veins on a leaf are perfectly described followed by a general assertion that the stand is full of trees that look nothing like the one described -- and leaving the description at that.  It's much harder, as a writer, to leave things out than to add things in, but I try.  I try, and sometimes this task comes easy.  Other times, it comes with much more difficulty.  Sometimes I imagine that I'm painting the image of the moon, and I've got all these stars up there, but they're ruining the aesthetic of loneliness.  Sometimes, I paint the rays of the stars in my mind, infinite details coalescing at the tip of my fingers, and force myself to remove the white filter of moonlight.  Either way, I try.

And that's all any of us can do.

This piece

The selection today starts strong and fades into explanation.  It grows dull and reads lethargic by the end.  Even so, this WORD DOODLE is significant and valuable, showing hints of things that are not explained elsewhere at the beginning and more powerful for the omissions.  The power of a pair of adjectives to relay mountains of information can never be overstated. 

I should also point out that this is a "mythic" piece, meant to be a story explaining how things are to children in the world of A Vow Unbroken (the first of the series is Borehole Bazaar).  These are the allegories used to explain how the world works once the races begin to intermix, and as such, there is an element of spoileryness to this sort of piece.  Even so, it's a great little non-canonical word doodle.

Please do not steal this work, but if inspiration strikes from reading, act on your inspiration.  Treat the copyright on this the same as an oil or watercolor or other fine art piece and give "inspiration" credit where it is due.  If, by chance, the exercise of trying from memory to copy is used, be extra certain to label your source (this is good advice in general/for life).

Dancing Evermore

It is a sad truth that foxes do not live forever, but not a sad truth that, when they die, they go on to the realm of the hunt.  One might ask, since only the greatest hunters of all species go there, to try their hand at hunting and to be born again when they are vanquished, ever experiencing every moment of exhilaration and graceful poise, why a low-level carnivore would opt for such a fate as this.

Ah, but have you heard of unlucky Kiki?  Of triumphant Forjay? Of luxurious Yizhear?   These foxes, they led the way. But how?

Well, that story comes from a little kit of the Sobresat foxes, which are almost as much coyote as they are fox, though smaller than the former and of shorter, less glossy fur than the latter.  They are playful with their pack, but shy and retiring, timid and timorous, when confronted with outsiders.

Shy, yes, but also fierce.

One day, a particularly agile member of the clan was gnawing on a bit of bone that was somewhat too large for her head.  She was in good company, for a pack of giant wolves, bone spurs forming a thick, tough ridge about their spines and the fur about their neck and shoulders thick like a porcupine's, were likewise gnawing.  She had often dined with them, but was not one amongst them. Rather, they had long learned that she never stayed chased off for long and that her eyes and nose were good enough to warn of disturbance.

There is not much that could bring worry to a sizeable pack’s tails, but even they were not the strongest, much though they ranked near enough this mark.  The leaders called themselves Ehrjaxt. They numbered three most times, though there were a few who shared their name when the pack splintered for the hunt.  Ehrjaxt with the brownest fur stood and shook his great cape, lolling his tongue for a moment before he paced toward the Sobresat fox. She gazed up at him with wide eyes, though she did not release her bone.

Wolves speak in the way of wolves, which we can understand but cannot truly emulate.  Foxes speak in the way of foxes, but they can speak wolf when they need to. It never sounds quite right, but wolves rarely bother to learn the weird sounds of the fox.  So Ehrjaxt of the brownest fur said to the fox, “If you would join us, you will hunt.”

The coyote fox stood quietly for a moment, dropping her bone and setting a single paw atop it, claiming it for herself.  She considered for a time, then nodded and resumed eating. Now, she had understood that this meant she was to hunt right now, to leave this moment, but foxes like having things explained extra, just to be sure.  So she waited until the brown-furred Ehrjaxt snapped at the air before her whiskers before darting off, holding still to show her bravery first.

No one knows the name of this first Sobresat fox, or perhaps her story is the story of many such foxes, and hers is simply the story that is told.  At any rate, she knew she could not hunt in the way that even a single giant wolf can hunt, but she knew that she could hunt in her own way.

First, though, she wanted to have a witness, but Ehrjaxt with the longest nose knew full well that foxes, even tame ones like her, like to make others work and then share in the kills as an equal if left to their own mischief.  So Ehrjaxt with the longest nose chose a pup to go with her, one that was nearing two years old, and told the pup, called Ovcta, not to let the fox trick him. Ovcta was canny among the pups, with larger ears and three tails instead of just two.  He trotted off to where the fox waited, perched halfway up a tree.

Most foxes find trees difficult to manage, but most Sobresat foxes can climb them as well as most cats, though they do this by jumping great heights and landing precisely on the branches with their delicate three-toed paws, counterbalancing with their single, long, beautifully muscled tail.  This one jumped to another tree, then down to land between Ovcta’s shoulders, then again down to the ground. So light was her footfall that Ovcta only barely realized she was there, but she was not perfectly clever, as one of Ovcta’s fur-quills stuck in her paw.

Now, Xi’Xien foxes are good about pain, and Twirling foxes, like Forjay, are so bold that they cannot be held back by it, and Tovalla foxes are too concerned with looking pretty to let it be known that they are in pain, unless such a truth makes them look pretty in some other way, but Sobresat foxes, they cry and make such a sound of despair even when a mere tick chances upon their ear.  So this one fell to her side and cried and yelped and made every sound of distress that a fox can make, and even some that most think they cannot, until Ovcta felt he must either help the poorly creature or else kill it to end its suffering.

The sound made by the fox when the quill was gripped firmly and pulled out was loud enough that poor Ovcta could not hear so well for many days, but the Sobresat fox was content and led the way, despite having much shorter legs than the wolf, and one of them sensitive to the ground’s lickings, too.  She took a path not much used by the wolves until she found a place where the Novamahr deer would come to drink, their giant antlers having made a path in the canopy that led to a bit of water while their delicate, tiny legs traveled paths so narrow that poor Ovcta was scraped on each shoulder by brambles.  Still, eventually, they made it to the clear pool, and the fox rolled around in the water, rubbing her fur hard against the rounded rocks in the middle. Ovcta thought that this was just the normal way that foxes like to stay way cleaner than any creature should, but this was actually a clever ploy.  

After making herself smell like nothing but wet and fur, she jumped up some eight feet to rub against the trunks, getting sap from where the Novamahr deer had pushed through the foliage to coat her freshly wetted fur.  She then climbed high up to where a nest of newborn birds were and sat beneath them until she smelled of bird droppings, of sticky sap, of water, and of air, with only a little bit of her fox-smell slipping through this olfactory mask.  Every few moments, she jumped up a little higher or a little lower, rubbing against moss and tree-ant hives but staying far away from the nest of parchment wasps!

Ovcta tried to ask her what she was hunting, but the coyotelike fox said to be quiet, that she was stalking, even though she made noise enough to let any prey animal know of her approach.  With little else for it, Ovcta kept watching her and felt amused by the little creature’s antics, though he was sad that the fox would have to stop eating scraps with the pack when she failed to hunt.  Foxes stayed young for much longer than wolves, so it was easy enough to think of her, each spring, as a newborn little sister, even if he only had just experienced his third spring, the first of which he did not remember the sight of but distinctly remembered the smells for.

Finally, they came to a clearing full of all sorts of game.  Ovcta was surprised because normally prey would have run away, thinking themselves hunted, but this time, they seemed not to be worried that a fox was in the trees and making a racket.  The Sobresat fox gestured for him to lay down out in the open air and sun himself on a rock, which seemed crazy, but then she jumped down and danced about first, and he trotted after, and all the prey gazed at them with confusion and alarm for a moment before twitching their ears and going back about their meals.  It was just two youngsters playing, nothing the least threatening about that.

They lounged for a few hours in the sunlight like that until the shadows were a little bit longer.  Every few minutes, the fox would get up and pounce on his tails until he snapped at her. Then, she would dart away, first only a little distance, but then with great leaps and bounds.  The prey seemed more annoyed than frightened, now, and while a few moved away, others stood their ground or even pressed closer, letting her know that they would not be bullied by her wildly exuberant play.  Ovact stayed on the rock and digested, not quite sure what this whole business was about but fascinated by how differently the prey acted around this lesser hunter, this killer of mice and occasional rabbits.

An old bull moose walked into the clearing, swaying with each ponderous step.  He was colossal in height and girth, but his second hide was deteriorating in places, and it was clear he’d lost the last few rutts to younger males. Even so, Ehrjaxt of many years and old scars would not have led a hunt against such a creature except in the most desperate of hungers, and even the other Ehrjaxts would have shied away from the prospect of glory at the cost of taking the brute majesty of this failing defender.

Now, though, the fox darted close at the tails and flung herself wide, leaping up the middle path of the bull moose’s skull.  He espied her not, his broad forehead and wide-set eyes perfect for spotting those that would approach from either flank and even, to a measure, from behind, but she danced perfectly with the swaying of his head, staying ever in his blind spot until, from twelve feet away, she leapt.

Ovact had seen the fox leap before, but it had always been little leaps, into trees or playfully with mischief.  He’d never seen her leap with deadly intent, with every vector of her body perfectly aligned to most charge her spring, to carry her through the air like a granite bullet from a sling.  The bull was not hurt by her landing upon his forehead, but he was startled and immediately charged, shaking his head violently as he did. Ovact darted to the side quickly, stunned to see his tiny friend atop the moose’s head, being tossed from curved palmate antler to curved palmate antler.  But no, she wasn’t being tossed. She was running from one side to the other and crouching down, then running to the other side.

The bull was furious and ran headlong at the bushes and trees, doing itself considerable harm while the Sobresat fox moved out of the way, even biting onto the danglings of fur under its lower lip for a time.  It kept plunging deeper and deeper, knocking through boulders and trees and bushes and all sorts of things. It was easy enough to follow, and it turned in its path eventually, taking some instinctive cares to avoid the densest brush.  Ovact followed until he came to the edge of another pack’s territory, some eight miles down. He worried after his friend and hoped that no wars would come of this. Lifting his nose and opening his mouth, he sniffed at the air, hoping the pack-smell was not strong upon her.

But no!  She had never caught his tails, and she had not touched him since her bath.  She did not smell of a predator but of birds and moss and sap and all the things that a bull moose might smell of!  The cleverness suddenly apparent, Ovact found himself worried over losing the precocious little short-furred fox. But it was not safe to enter this territory, so all he could do was pace the edges and sniff the air for the scents of a panicked bull moose.

All night he roamed the border, back and forth, forth and back, until, finally and at last, he heard a thunderous crashing and darted off toward the sound.  Several birds startled from their rest and he snapped prodigiously, not pausing overmuch and thus catching a bird that had expected him to behave as a proper hunter.  He carried this prize with him and charged after the sound now, his feet finding purchase enough to hurl his body headlong toward his target.

Feathers in mouth and the bird still flapping as he hadn’t got the right grip on it and was too excited to slow down and finish the hunt right, he caught sight of the bull running forward again, its neck bloodied in a dozen small bites, the wounds from its rutts of the day before worried and raw and exposed, and a heaviness to his step that spoke of complete and utter exhaustion.  His one eye was goughed out, but the other eye was white all around the edges. This was causing it to vere toward one side, but then he spotted his fox savagely biting at the giant ear, turning the monster again. It went straight for awhile before starting to turn again. And then was corrected once more.

There was a great deal of cruelty in this method of killing as the fox kept the moose moving for three days flat out, but eventually it collapsed, unable to move as she scrambled off and began digging and biting at its neck, finally reaching deep enough to spill lifeblood.  It was only after the creature sagged down that Ovact realized that the three Ehrjaxts were standing quietly by, observing. A younger adult took the name and stepped forward, growling softly. The little coyote-fox hunkered down but did not run away, and the leader of wolves hovered directly over her, all teeth bared.  Finally, though, the matron relented, licking the scruff of the Sobresat fox twice before moving in to take a first bite.

Suddenly, the rest of the pack was over the dale and into the corpse, ripping through the tough hide to the warmth within such that steam danced in the sky.  That night, the little fox did not run off to sleep in a nearby tree but curled up between Ovact and the Ehrjaxt with brown fur. She helped with the hunts now and was not chased from her share of scraps but treated as a one-year-old pup.  And when the spring came, she denned with the other mothers and spilled her brood into the pack. So it was that, when her spirit walked from her flesh and the decision was cast before her, she chose to hunt and be hunted beside all the great Ehrjaxt, and a warmer welcome she’d have found nowhere else.

It's NOT Garbage

"Writing through the Garbage"

I HATE this phrase, much though I maintain a very relaxed demeanor when folks use it.  "Oh, the first time I tried to write a story, it was trash.  It was garbage.  It was TERRIBLE.  These judgments are generally presumed to be relative or contrasted with present accomplishments, but there are primarily two major problems with the statement.

The first is that this makes "good" drafts with small flaws automatically equated to garbage, trash, and terrible things.  Having a "thick skin" or developing one in response to the perception that work is always one step from trash is not a very good way of maintaining a healthy outlook.  Between the stress, ego, and self-worth aspects, far better is the concept of word doodles, of experiments, of exercises and play.  A word doodle isn't meant to be high art, but it's certainly not garbage.  Such creations are pretty in their own way and have no need to be either complete or professional. They are not trash.  They are doodles, and masterpieces may come of a single line -- or not.

Sketchbooks and Privacy

Having known a great number of artists, there is a certain vulnerability in revealing old sketchbooks.  There is an ettiquette to the act, a respect for agency that is held above other aspects.  Sixteen sketches that are nearly the same, perhaps of a bird in flight or a particular flower or an abstract repetition of the same geometric shapes, might have deeper meaning to the artist in question or might just be how the mind crafted those lines.  

When an artist shows a sketchbook, be this a collection of poems, a few short stories, perhaps a line of dialogue that they like, they are revealing something that makes them extremely vulnerable.  At the same time, these are sketches.  Doodles.  They will have hints of brilliance without being themselves brilliant.  This in no way degrades the works, but to call them trash is utterly inaccurate.  

As part of this run, I'm sharing another word-doodle.  It's got good lines and scenes, but it's also chock full of lines that do not flow, that do not make the piece high art.

Inspiration and Idea Theft

Word-doodles often have lines, scenes, or ideas that are inspiring, that help the mind flow in a particular direction.  As general advice, artists taking inspiration should follow the same rules as artists in other mediums, like Oil, Watercolor, Ink, or Cloth. Sometimes, trying to type a favorite scene from memory, embellishing as the mind dictates, is FANTASTIC exercise and can lead to great things.  With such exercises, ALWAYS credit the source.  Best wishes and may this word-doodle inspire.

Today's Offering

Today, I'm sharing a Word Doodle exploring ideas for A Vow Unbroken's greater world.  This segment explores how things might go down if the classic power dynamic suddenly reversed. I have dozens of these doodles, none of which are intended to be cannonnical on their own but which have helped to inform the final direction, either through rejection or through later adoption.  My hope is that at least one line inspires.

Empty air is never really empty, at least not in the middle of an ambush.  Well, not quite the middle. The part where the enemy can be seen trundling with their armored wagon some eight meters off is filled with the thoughts and anxieties of the moment.  A tree fell a little to the left and the frustration and hostility that filled the air was all but palpable.

Only one in about eight hunts is successful.  Often, the attacks are called off because our quarry senses something amiss and grows overly cautious.  Sometimes, they simply repel us. Those are bad days. Rarely, they manage to simply run away with their goods.  Had our

A thrush pecked at the rocks beside the trail, utterly unperturbed by the twenty gathered souls spread throughout the trees and loosely ringing the trail.  Thoughts and doubts whittled at the otherwise still air, reaching out to caress the promise drawn by a lathering team of four horses and the humans that, spent from helping to push the laden carriage up the hill, now panted and climbed back into the wagon.

This was a dip in the road, a place where the wagon would not get far if it rolled to either side or the horses tried to bolt.  Six of those gathered were in charge of preventing escape. The rest, well, the rest save Ogdhixt, were charged with subduing any and all members of this team who might be so unwise as to resist, and they always seemed disinclined toward wisdom.

Melokt gestured faintly at his diplomat and watched as the well-grizzled mutt stepped free from a clump of otherwise unoccupied brush and made himself comfortable, leaning against a tall stump such that he would not be visible until the forward advance was nearly astride him.  The slow trundling continued and Melokt smiled as the haggard merchants drew into view. They were spent, having clearly marched through the night, and fully half their number were injured. There was a certain gauntness to them that spoke of transported riches and not victuals, too.  Ever since the war had resolved, the dynamics between the races had begun to shift, and not just in the distant nation of Erreatha.

No longer were the roads guarded so well as once they had been.  Instead, resources were directed to the borders, leaving those within the nation to pilfer unabated.  The cities were no longer even slightly accommodating, but there were vast swaths of wilderness to which the displaced could swarm and find their peace anew.  

These creatures were celenicics, which normally would have been cause for concern, but they walked with somewhat hunched shoulders and, though they did not sweat, theirs was an air of exhaustion all the same.  While their clothing was fine in make, it was worn as though it had been the only clothing brought to bear against the elements for some time. Their cheekbones were not so much high and haughty so much as gaunt and hard.  Each panted like a human and Melokt wondered if, perhaps, these were somewhat more than simply devious refugees. If so, then chances were they had taken the mountain paths in the hours of Spring least suited to travel. There would be no enforcement from the cities, he mused, as none save the daft would ever make such an attempt.  The daft and the desperate.

Ogdhixt’s voice sounded, rolling smoothly in the sing-song baby-talk of the language shared by all common races.  Melokt watched with narrowed eyes, daring even one among this most hated race to even hint at drawing steel. Instead, the wagon caught space just behind the forward advance and, dull eyed, the entire troupe simply watched without seeming emotion.  They then, as one and with the uncanny synchronicity known of the race, put their hands upon their belt buckles and allowed their scabbards to slide into the dust. Two walked to the horses and began unhitching these, leading them slowly to the side as though each step hurt and every effort was a wasted expenditure of calories, and tied them to a few nearby trees.  Melokt watched two of his men shift as faintly luminous celenicic eyes flicked over them and lowered, clearly not any more concerned by this immediate peril than they were with their myriad other woes.

He shifted his weight, not entirely sure if he trusted this display, and decided on an order of soft capture.  The movements for this were simple, though he’d never given them before a bit of slaughter. His underlings, a healthy mix of lasses this year to complement the brawny lads he’d picked up from the city’s discarded masses, seemed to understand.  First, the six in charge of making sure the carriage didn’t bolt came down and “helped” to tie up the horses. Next, a few more filed into place, one catching a member of the troupe and tying its hands together in front of its face before pointing toward the side of the road.

They didn’t resist.  They didn’t fuss. They hardly reacted, instead seeming almost relieved that things were being taken care of efficiently.  One that might have been their leader, a stalwart woman of sharp angles and abrupt syllables, was speaking with his diplomat.  Both were solemn and spoke in quiet tones. It seemed she aimed to negotiate, which was hardly her place in the circumstances. Melokt finally strode out among the quiet mass and set a hand commandingly on her shoulder, squeezing just enough to feel the bones give a little.  Her voice had drawn still at the contact and her breath hissed faintly at the pressure. He patted her twice and left his hand in place, feeling her intentions through threadbare fabric and skin.

Turning his voice to his diplomat while his eyes roved this scene for potential dangers, he allowed the accent of his homeland ring between his thick tusks.  

“This one giving you trouble?”

Ogdhixt’s voice stumbled somewhat as he switched between tongues, though his meaning was, as always, quite clearly rendered.

“Not as such.  I informed the miss that this was a “money for your life” kind of situation and she has interpreted it to mean that, if they give us all their money, we will help them set up a new life.”

“An interesting understanding.  Tell her we have no need for prisoners at the moment.”

“It was one of the first things I informed her.  She responded that a mule is no more a prisoner than a riding bull.  It’s a play on a colloquial expression from Erreatha and its surrounds.  It means --”

“I’m not daft.”  Melokt tapped his right tusk with the flat of a dagger, gripping the shoulder of this elvish woman with a touch more force.  His own peoples had been displaced thousands of times before. They were, in fact, presently displaced. It had seeped into their culture and made nomads of warriors, dismantling any hope at true mechanical genius.  He’d seen the weapons a few generations of peace had wrought; the softer races were wise to fear the stilled beast’s mind. Elves, celenicics, heck, even gnomes and the local population of kauapika had not been uprooted from their ancestrial homes in thousands of years.  The strain of constant travel wore hard on his prisoners, but there was a strength to them that spoke of some years’ experience. “We have nets that need mending. If they don’t mind working from the first of the sun’s songs to the last, I can set them to the task. They own nothing that came with them.  They beg for food on hands and knees. They eat last, after even our mounts and children.”

“I’ll let her know.”  Ogdhixt switched to his mother’s tongue and relayed all that needed to be passed on.  The matron stiffened at the words but otherwise did not protest, instead moving into a subtle bow and offering what could possibly have been thanks.  She pulled off the tunic and soft, flowing robes she’d worn, though she left a thin layer of cloth over her chest and about her legs. Melokt considered pushing for full compliance, but there was something about the way she complied that indicated she was already breaking in the deed.  He nodded and gestured for her to spread the instruction to the rest of her party.