4 / 25 Moods? (Cochalyon)
So the Shanrie will stop moleing me (don't ask) XD
I was sure I had at least six written, but if that was ever so *pokes reality nodule of brain* I seem to have lost the last two. O_o I'll keep an eye out just in case.
Oh, and since I left off the warning on the last one, here it is this time: this jumps wildly through the chronology of the general story and will make absolutely no sense to first-time readers (or even well-acquainted readers, possibly, but for different reasons). You can please yourself, but I'd look elsewhere if I were you. XD
3. Pleased
Pre-defeat of Yurahaina, early in campaign.
The excitement in the town was even greater than it would have been in Mithyaron, coloured as it was by novelty and outright wonder. Cochalyon had known that the presence of year-shifters would draw many, many eyes, but he was not so prepared for the intensity of the interest - faces crowded through windows and filled the shady branches of the trees as high as the treetops, and the air was unnaturally full of birds, insects and dragonettes. They could hardly all be real shapes.
Voices cheered from every nook and cranny as Cochalyon's retinue strode through the streets, obligingly spreading their wings to show off their glory-varied autumn plumage. Cochalyon kept up a more princely reserve, though he smiled, until they reached the central square where the images of the local lords and of Yurahaina stood lit under illumina. There, his sudden, courteous wing-flare startled cries of wonder and delight from the crowds, and the air swarmed with bird-shapes swooping in for a look.
"Sālâsácûâr! Sālâsácûâr!"
"My word," said Arathalian dryly, a rather lonely and diminutive figure now amongst the lofty year-shifter heads and fiery-coloured plumage. The moon fae wore no ironwings, out of courtesy, but was probably regretting it on a day like today. "You're a popular fellow at the moment."
Cochalyon gave a little grin, knowing full well that Arathalian was taking careful note of exactly where and how popular he was, as directed.
"Oh, well," he replied, flapping his hand in a princessly demurral until Arathalian chuckled. "It's not as though all the cheers for the fine lords behind us have been completely drowned out. They clearly love this Lord of Over-Silver, whoever he is."
"Sālâ, not sálâ," said Arathalian. "Lord of Over-Wave."
"Your dialect is so muddy," Cochalyon sighed. "Lord of Over-Wave? Who's that?"
"No idea," the Quicksilver responded, deadpan. "Some new flavour of the month. They'll have forgotten all about him by spring."
"You're getting a bit better at this, my boy."
"Thank you."
Cochalyon grinned again and gave another supposed polite obeisance to the ennobled statuary, raising another wave-like gasp of awe and delight as his autumn wings flared - sweeping mottles of black, gold and crimson.
It was almost as good as the look on Arathalian's face.
6. Tired
End of Cochalyon's life.
Pain. Just more pain; nothing different, nothing new about that. But there was something strange and steady and go forwards about the way the energy was draining from his limbs now. He wasn't losing consciousness; he was going somewhere.
He continued to breathe only on animal reflex - the iron in his body prevented a feeding grasp for magic - but it was hard with the hands clutching him in, cradling his head against a thin woollen shirt.
"Your next Turn on the Circle will be better," a half-heard voice whispered, muffled in wool and tears. "It will be better. It will be better."
It seemed to be encouraging him to leave, but the message of the hands was contradictory. They clutched and stroked his hair, holding on like iron and death.
No more of that. No more!
Go forwards.
15. Silly
Seithanyn is three or four years old.
"Whooo's ... a-fuzzy-fuzzball?"
Cochalyon hoisted his brother and gave him a shivery-shake in midair - partly to watch the little wings fluff like wattle, but mostly to hear his very silly giggle.
"Hu-hu-hu-hu-hu!" obliged Seithanyn, a staccato cackle in the back of his throat.
"Whooooo's ... a-fuzzy-fuzzball?"
"Hu-hu-hu-hu!"
"Whooooooo's-"
"Cochalyon," interrupted his father's voice, still leisurely and calm.
Holding his brother half-lofted under the armpits, Cochalyon turned his head to look towards Atosca, who sat with his wings outstretched for his attendants to preen. "Your Majesty?"
Atosca didn't reply. Instead he gave a pointed nod of his head to one of the attendants on his right.
Chastened, Cochalyon put Seithanyn back on the ground, sneezing on a bit of dislodged baby-down. Seithanyn sat where he was put and raised his arms again, flapping his wings in a flurry of tantrum.
"Enough of that," said Cochalyon, squatting down with dignity next to his consanguinal ball of charcoal fuzz. "We're princes, you know."
Seithanyn continued to stretch out his small hands, his wings almost a blur.
"How'd you get so fluffy, Dandelion? How'd you get so fluffy? Eh?" He poked at a downy wing. "Fluff here ... and here ... and here ..."
"Hu-hu-hu-hu!"
"And-here-and-here-and-here-and-"
"Cochalyon."
"Sorry, your Majesty."
16. Hollow/Blank
Some unspecified time in second century of Age of Iron.
"Sir," Saurley greeted as he stepped inside, as one was supposed to, and took up the observation seat by the door. Hawsan's ample behind had left it still quite warm.
Cochalyon didn't acknowledge his greeting, so he stayed put in the chair. The fae sat in a brass tub full of what didn't look to be very warm bathwater - some earlier researcher's gift - with one arm gripping the side and his head resting on his own left shoulder. He was watching Saurley, though. His expressionless amber eyes were fixed on the observation seat.
Saurley took out his notepad, reminding himself not to jot absentminded flowers anywhere on submissible notes. He'd been in trouble before. "Would you like to know who I spoke to yesterday?"
"Talk," said Cochalyon, head still to one side, his voice humming with a light resonance in the bath.
"Ascalain. I know, not usually a Reconstructions Query favourite to talk to, but there was a spare moment on his schedule and I just decided to talk to him."
"About?"
"Well ... nothing much, in the end. Children's games. I'm not entirely sure how that came up."
Cochalyon shifted in the bathtub, sending ripples through the water and Saurley's calm. One never liked or expected to see the fae move much in winter.
"Your story has no point I can see," the fae said in his resonant but monotonic voice. "I am still waiting for what you really want to say."
"I want to talk about an excavation in Corruth."
"I am not Inyaronian. I do not know Corruth. I have no interest in anything this side of the sea." It was an old and familiar response, always delivered in the same words and with the same lack of expression.
"It's an old excavation, sir. Very, very old indeed. We think it may date from the days when the seasonal fae still lived in Inyaron."
"Imagine if we had exterminated the both of you while we ruled," remarked Cochalyon, and bent to dip his head in the cold bathwater. He emerged with hollow face and stark hair sloughing water. "Humans and moon fae. No iron, no ironmagic. The quiet would fill the treetops. Time like air."
Saurley opened his mouth for a reply and then held the words for a moment. In front of the bath, a hazy woman with dark hair and blue eyes turned to stare in naked terror over her shoulder; then her face began to crumble and she was gone.
The mindshadows in Arathalian's cell were always cause for alarm when sighted. In Cochalyon's cell, they were commonplace. There was certainly no need to fear that they or any random flux of magic would grow strong enough to eat him.
Off to one side, an imaginary man shielded his head and was swallowed up into nothing by ... nothing.
"Those aren't very good daydreams, sir," Saurley commented, attempting to make light of it. He'd been attacked by a mindshadow once - a shouting half-memory of Ilinme's. They made him nervous.
"They do not make the right noises," agreed Cochalyon. "They are not brittle. They should crack like bones. What did you find at this excavation of yours?"
"Stones, sir, which -"
"Sing."
"Yes! You know the place? Sir?"
Cochalyon shook his head no. Tendrils of wet, white hair slapped at his face. "Stones on hills. There should be many of them. When no people are about to sing in the Circle festivals, the stone circles sing in their place. Are they gone? I suppose the moon fae had no need for them."
"No ... need?" Saurley struggled to stay focussed, but a man in two halves was crawling across the floor now, muttering snap, snap, snap.
"Stone circles are as clean as the Circle," said Cochalyon. "They hate iron. Moon fae do not. They would have had difficulties with their war-magic."
The seasonal fae dipped his face in the water again, then raised it streaming.
"I would like more water, man of iron," he said.
*glomp*
I was sure I had at least six written, but if that was ever so *pokes reality nodule of brain* I seem to have lost the last two. O_o I'll keep an eye out just in case.
Oh, and since I left off the warning on the last one, here it is this time: this jumps wildly through the chronology of the general story and will make absolutely no sense to first-time readers (or even well-acquainted readers, possibly, but for different reasons). You can please yourself, but I'd look elsewhere if I were you. XD
3. Pleased
Pre-defeat of Yurahaina, early in campaign.
The excitement in the town was even greater than it would have been in Mithyaron, coloured as it was by novelty and outright wonder. Cochalyon had known that the presence of year-shifters would draw many, many eyes, but he was not so prepared for the intensity of the interest - faces crowded through windows and filled the shady branches of the trees as high as the treetops, and the air was unnaturally full of birds, insects and dragonettes. They could hardly all be real shapes.
Voices cheered from every nook and cranny as Cochalyon's retinue strode through the streets, obligingly spreading their wings to show off their glory-varied autumn plumage. Cochalyon kept up a more princely reserve, though he smiled, until they reached the central square where the images of the local lords and of Yurahaina stood lit under illumina. There, his sudden, courteous wing-flare startled cries of wonder and delight from the crowds, and the air swarmed with bird-shapes swooping in for a look.
"Sālâsácûâr! Sālâsácûâr!"
"My word," said Arathalian dryly, a rather lonely and diminutive figure now amongst the lofty year-shifter heads and fiery-coloured plumage. The moon fae wore no ironwings, out of courtesy, but was probably regretting it on a day like today. "You're a popular fellow at the moment."
Cochalyon gave a little grin, knowing full well that Arathalian was taking careful note of exactly where and how popular he was, as directed.
"Oh, well," he replied, flapping his hand in a princessly demurral until Arathalian chuckled. "It's not as though all the cheers for the fine lords behind us have been completely drowned out. They clearly love this Lord of Over-Silver, whoever he is."
"Sālâ, not sálâ," said Arathalian. "Lord of Over-Wave."
"Your dialect is so muddy," Cochalyon sighed. "Lord of Over-Wave? Who's that?"
"No idea," the Quicksilver responded, deadpan. "Some new flavour of the month. They'll have forgotten all about him by spring."
"You're getting a bit better at this, my boy."
"Thank you."
Cochalyon grinned again and gave another supposed polite obeisance to the ennobled statuary, raising another wave-like gasp of awe and delight as his autumn wings flared - sweeping mottles of black, gold and crimson.
It was almost as good as the look on Arathalian's face.
6. Tired
End of Cochalyon's life.
Pain. Just more pain; nothing different, nothing new about that. But there was something strange and steady and go forwards about the way the energy was draining from his limbs now. He wasn't losing consciousness; he was going somewhere.
He continued to breathe only on animal reflex - the iron in his body prevented a feeding grasp for magic - but it was hard with the hands clutching him in, cradling his head against a thin woollen shirt.
"Your next Turn on the Circle will be better," a half-heard voice whispered, muffled in wool and tears. "It will be better. It will be better."
It seemed to be encouraging him to leave, but the message of the hands was contradictory. They clutched and stroked his hair, holding on like iron and death.
No more of that. No more!
Go forwards.
15. Silly
Seithanyn is three or four years old.
"Whooo's ... a-fuzzy-fuzzball?"
Cochalyon hoisted his brother and gave him a shivery-shake in midair - partly to watch the little wings fluff like wattle, but mostly to hear his very silly giggle.
"Hu-hu-hu-hu-hu!" obliged Seithanyn, a staccato cackle in the back of his throat.
"Whooooo's ... a-fuzzy-fuzzball?"
"Hu-hu-hu-hu!"
"Whooooooo's-"
"Cochalyon," interrupted his father's voice, still leisurely and calm.
Holding his brother half-lofted under the armpits, Cochalyon turned his head to look towards Atosca, who sat with his wings outstretched for his attendants to preen. "Your Majesty?"
Atosca didn't reply. Instead he gave a pointed nod of his head to one of the attendants on his right.
Chastened, Cochalyon put Seithanyn back on the ground, sneezing on a bit of dislodged baby-down. Seithanyn sat where he was put and raised his arms again, flapping his wings in a flurry of tantrum.
"Enough of that," said Cochalyon, squatting down with dignity next to his consanguinal ball of charcoal fuzz. "We're princes, you know."
Seithanyn continued to stretch out his small hands, his wings almost a blur.
"How'd you get so fluffy, Dandelion? How'd you get so fluffy? Eh?" He poked at a downy wing. "Fluff here ... and here ... and here ..."
"Hu-hu-hu-hu!"
"And-here-and-here-and-here-and-"
"Cochalyon."
"Sorry, your Majesty."
16. Hollow/Blank
Some unspecified time in second century of Age of Iron.
"Sir," Saurley greeted as he stepped inside, as one was supposed to, and took up the observation seat by the door. Hawsan's ample behind had left it still quite warm.
Cochalyon didn't acknowledge his greeting, so he stayed put in the chair. The fae sat in a brass tub full of what didn't look to be very warm bathwater - some earlier researcher's gift - with one arm gripping the side and his head resting on his own left shoulder. He was watching Saurley, though. His expressionless amber eyes were fixed on the observation seat.
Saurley took out his notepad, reminding himself not to jot absentminded flowers anywhere on submissible notes. He'd been in trouble before. "Would you like to know who I spoke to yesterday?"
"Talk," said Cochalyon, head still to one side, his voice humming with a light resonance in the bath.
"Ascalain. I know, not usually a Reconstructions Query favourite to talk to, but there was a spare moment on his schedule and I just decided to talk to him."
"About?"
"Well ... nothing much, in the end. Children's games. I'm not entirely sure how that came up."
Cochalyon shifted in the bathtub, sending ripples through the water and Saurley's calm. One never liked or expected to see the fae move much in winter.
"Your story has no point I can see," the fae said in his resonant but monotonic voice. "I am still waiting for what you really want to say."
"I want to talk about an excavation in Corruth."
"I am not Inyaronian. I do not know Corruth. I have no interest in anything this side of the sea." It was an old and familiar response, always delivered in the same words and with the same lack of expression.
"It's an old excavation, sir. Very, very old indeed. We think it may date from the days when the seasonal fae still lived in Inyaron."
"Imagine if we had exterminated the both of you while we ruled," remarked Cochalyon, and bent to dip his head in the cold bathwater. He emerged with hollow face and stark hair sloughing water. "Humans and moon fae. No iron, no ironmagic. The quiet would fill the treetops. Time like air."
Saurley opened his mouth for a reply and then held the words for a moment. In front of the bath, a hazy woman with dark hair and blue eyes turned to stare in naked terror over her shoulder; then her face began to crumble and she was gone.
The mindshadows in Arathalian's cell were always cause for alarm when sighted. In Cochalyon's cell, they were commonplace. There was certainly no need to fear that they or any random flux of magic would grow strong enough to eat him.
Off to one side, an imaginary man shielded his head and was swallowed up into nothing by ... nothing.
"Those aren't very good daydreams, sir," Saurley commented, attempting to make light of it. He'd been attacked by a mindshadow once - a shouting half-memory of Ilinme's. They made him nervous.
"They do not make the right noises," agreed Cochalyon. "They are not brittle. They should crack like bones. What did you find at this excavation of yours?"
"Stones, sir, which -"
"Sing."
"Yes! You know the place? Sir?"
Cochalyon shook his head no. Tendrils of wet, white hair slapped at his face. "Stones on hills. There should be many of them. When no people are about to sing in the Circle festivals, the stone circles sing in their place. Are they gone? I suppose the moon fae had no need for them."
"No ... need?" Saurley struggled to stay focussed, but a man in two halves was crawling across the floor now, muttering snap, snap, snap.
"Stone circles are as clean as the Circle," said Cochalyon. "They hate iron. Moon fae do not. They would have had difficulties with their war-magic."
The seasonal fae dipped his face in the water again, then raised it streaming.
"I would like more water, man of iron," he said.
*glomp*