In which Cuthbert is nearly brained by a bird.
Even on the island, where the fair weather made the days and weeks run together and blend, marked only, it seemed to Bert, by the disappearance of friends or one of the island's magical anomalies, he found that this time of year made him thoughtful.
At home, they would be celebrating Reaptide, and in the small baronies outside of the white city Cuthbert called home, folk would be burning effigies. Charyou, reap, life for your crop. It had always been one of his favorite seasons-- the fires, the cold cider, the snap in the air as the year came to its close-- but just a few months in a little village by the sea had made it so that he never wanted to see another stuffy-guy again, if he could help it.
The air was as warm as ever, and tonight, no Demon Moon would grin down on the island. If he heard the warbling-sick song of the thinny, it was only in his head. He had taken Cort's walking stick in hand and set out aimlessly, letting his feet take him down the southeastern path, heading at once toward Aly's, toward Lloyd's, and toward Lisey's place, not sure where he would go, who he would talk to, if he even wanted to talk to anyone at all.
Cuthbert loved the island wholeheartedly, more than he had ever expected to. He clung to it as a part of his identity, now, as part of his ka, and took his role on the island much more seriously than anyone would suspect-- as a friend, as a peacekeeper, hell, even took his job slinging drinks at the Catscratch seriously. Though everything with Bert was always smiles and jokes-- and that was how he liked it-- lately, that free and easy manner was harder to come by. His test had been an eyeopener, for sure, and thoughts of Cort's disappearance had been kicking around in his heart like pebbles in a boot. His brief visit home-- what a disaster that had been-- had been the last straw, and the fact that Marten was on the island, albeit in a completely different form than Bert knew him, hardly made it easier to maintain his usual good cheer. And Alain-- well, Alain would be perfectly content finding Marten wherever he camped and aerating the bastard with nary a please and thank you. Cuthbert had a feeling that his fellows on the IPD might disapprove of this gesture, and so discouraged Alain, even if in his heart he thought that was probably the most prudent course of action. Cort would've done it. Cort wouldn't have thought Marten's guts fit to feed the big lizards he would've tossed him to when he was done, either.
Bert was so deep in thought that it took him much too long to notice the sound, which ought to have been at once familiar yet jarring in its disorientation. It sounded again, high and harsh and splitting the quiet of the afternoon.
He stopped and looked up, brushing his hair out of his face as he blinked at the empty sky. He examined the tree tops and listened for rustling, standing stock-still on the path. It had been a hawk, or sounded just like one, though Bert hadn't ever seen one on the island like they had at home. Bert started walking again, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and even affecting a little whistle as if to show exactly how much he wasn't paying attention to the sound, in hopes of coaxing it back out again.
Another cry, this one sounding closer. Bert's eyes shot toward the sound, but he kept meandering down the path. Up ahead, he heard someone else coming around the bend, but--
"Aah!" Bert's hands flew up, rather belatedly, to protect his head from the package that had clocked him out of the clear blue. He fumbled, dropped it in the dirt, then gawped at the sky. "What the hell!"
As if in answer, the bird swooped down, its talons only narrowly missing Cuthbert's head and flying straight for the individual coming down the path. Even in a blur of feathers, he had no trouble whatsoever recognizing the winged culprit. He shoved the package under his arm and ran for his hawk.
"Davey!"
[ My first Bert EP in almost a year and his second item post! @_@ He's been absent for a few months, so old friends and new are welcome. This is David, Cuthbert's hawk that died for a dubiously noble cause when he was thirteen. He's very well trained, but he's not really a pet, so watch your fingers. :> Slow time and late tags welcome 'til further notice. ]
At home, they would be celebrating Reaptide, and in the small baronies outside of the white city Cuthbert called home, folk would be burning effigies. Charyou, reap, life for your crop. It had always been one of his favorite seasons-- the fires, the cold cider, the snap in the air as the year came to its close-- but just a few months in a little village by the sea had made it so that he never wanted to see another stuffy-guy again, if he could help it.
The air was as warm as ever, and tonight, no Demon Moon would grin down on the island. If he heard the warbling-sick song of the thinny, it was only in his head. He had taken Cort's walking stick in hand and set out aimlessly, letting his feet take him down the southeastern path, heading at once toward Aly's, toward Lloyd's, and toward Lisey's place, not sure where he would go, who he would talk to, if he even wanted to talk to anyone at all.
Cuthbert loved the island wholeheartedly, more than he had ever expected to. He clung to it as a part of his identity, now, as part of his ka, and took his role on the island much more seriously than anyone would suspect-- as a friend, as a peacekeeper, hell, even took his job slinging drinks at the Catscratch seriously. Though everything with Bert was always smiles and jokes-- and that was how he liked it-- lately, that free and easy manner was harder to come by. His test had been an eyeopener, for sure, and thoughts of Cort's disappearance had been kicking around in his heart like pebbles in a boot. His brief visit home-- what a disaster that had been-- had been the last straw, and the fact that Marten was on the island, albeit in a completely different form than Bert knew him, hardly made it easier to maintain his usual good cheer. And Alain-- well, Alain would be perfectly content finding Marten wherever he camped and aerating the bastard with nary a please and thank you. Cuthbert had a feeling that his fellows on the IPD might disapprove of this gesture, and so discouraged Alain, even if in his heart he thought that was probably the most prudent course of action. Cort would've done it. Cort wouldn't have thought Marten's guts fit to feed the big lizards he would've tossed him to when he was done, either.
Bert was so deep in thought that it took him much too long to notice the sound, which ought to have been at once familiar yet jarring in its disorientation. It sounded again, high and harsh and splitting the quiet of the afternoon.
He stopped and looked up, brushing his hair out of his face as he blinked at the empty sky. He examined the tree tops and listened for rustling, standing stock-still on the path. It had been a hawk, or sounded just like one, though Bert hadn't ever seen one on the island like they had at home. Bert started walking again, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and even affecting a little whistle as if to show exactly how much he wasn't paying attention to the sound, in hopes of coaxing it back out again.
Another cry, this one sounding closer. Bert's eyes shot toward the sound, but he kept meandering down the path. Up ahead, he heard someone else coming around the bend, but--
"Aah!" Bert's hands flew up, rather belatedly, to protect his head from the package that had clocked him out of the clear blue. He fumbled, dropped it in the dirt, then gawped at the sky. "What the hell!"
As if in answer, the bird swooped down, its talons only narrowly missing Cuthbert's head and flying straight for the individual coming down the path. Even in a blur of feathers, he had no trouble whatsoever recognizing the winged culprit. He shoved the package under his arm and ran for his hawk.
"Davey!"
[ My first Bert EP in almost a year and his second item post! @_@ He's been absent for a few months, so old friends and new are welcome. This is David, Cuthbert's hawk that died for a dubiously noble cause when he was thirteen. He's very well trained, but he's not really a pet, so watch your fingers. :> Slow time and late tags welcome 'til further notice. ]
