Snow is White, Blood is Red Options

[Kitchen.Sink]

Snow is White, Blood is Red

I am a tired man. Not much to be done about it, really. At night my old knees creak when I bend to reach my favorite slippers (the little red velvet pair that I keep stashed in the small slip beneath the armoire). So, too, do my hands shake in the cold; and never worse than when I go to raise a spoonful of soup to my puckered little lips, causing me to spill broth and bits of chicken round the table. The sun also proves a nuisance. Each day, when I go roving through the vineyards on my morning stroll, I make sure to wear a wide hat on my little head (the sky still purple and amber, a walking cane in hand) but the shade of the brim hardly stops the sweat or the vague urge to faint in me. Really, it cannot be denied: my days will soon be done. And, truly, at this point a day passes as senseless as a year; a year as quick as a day. Not much to do, I suppose, but wait. My days will be done soon enough.

Even in youth I had been a rather mild man. I remember wishing friends well at their marriages, or from time to time, their funerals. I remember, as a child, climbing into the mountains so that I could study in silence. Upon becoming a mage, I spent many a night before a dim candle, deep in the wide, dark hallways of the Guild archives, scouring dusty tomes and scrolls for that ever elusive something—that unacknowledged cause, that undreamt dream. I suppose now that I can laugh a little at the naiveté of my younger self. Times have certainly changed. These days I spend my life in a simple cot a few miles from Skingrad, long retired and living on a humble budget. My only company consists of an occasional researcher or two, ambitious scholars like I once was, looking to overturn the world with ink and quill. Of course, they never stay; they ask a few a questions, gather a reference or two, and continue eagerly on their way. Such is the world, I suppose. Certainly, I was no different at their age.

But, this tale should not degenerate into one of simple self-pity. Quite the opposite, in fact. I suppose then that this little story of mine should begin one early morning, very early. The day, like most others, had begun with my usual routine. I awoke when the sun first broke light. Upon sliding to the end of the bed I dressed myself in loose clothes, fitted and laced up my little leather shoes, and, upon standing and stretching for a bit, I seized my cane and hat from out of the obscurest corner of the room. No, not a bite for breakfast. I found that eating before noon only churns my stomach up. After opening the door I was careful to listen for the lock click shut behind me as it closed (returning twice to turn the knob even after I was sure that it was locked). Beyond the mountains, faraway, a few clouds burned brown with purple and pink smudges on their lower linings, while the sun, having just nudged itself above the horizon, flung rays of yellow and subtle ocher over the earth. The air was crisp; the morning, cool. Yes, autumn was coming so I knew then that it would be a fine walk.

After passing the lazy, ivy-grown post that guards the border between my walkway and the cobblestone highway, I set off to the north along the road, letting my cane tap the cobbles occasionally as I walked. Everything, at this point, was still well within the routine. The early birds were chirping. The morning mist was lifting in bashful retreat. I had to stop every once in a while to wipe the sweat from my face and neck, for although the days were getting colder, mind you, I am still a fragile man.

Upon spotting the southern gate of Skingrad (slate grey and with the mist still thick about its pointed towers), I turned to my left a little, leaving the cobbled road behind so as to saunter through the grassy intersection of two rival vineyards. The sunlight now was deeper and more prevalent, glinting off the grass and vines, an angelic yellow all about the air. The dew dampened my ankles as I strode. From one vineyard some of the grape pickers waved, but the other side, not to be outdone, waved and suspended some fresh grapes above their heads in silent offering. I simply smiled and nodded at them both, acknowledging the kindness shown by each of the teams. Everything still rather routine at this point.

But, as you readers no doubt suspect by now, my old routine was eventually overturned. I shall spare you the details of my additional walk save that it was some distance past those vineyards, with my ankles fresh bedewed on the frilly crest of a hill, that I surrendered to that most pitiful of all human afflictions, perhaps, even, the only true affliction from which we silly, sentient creatures suffer—that restless rogue the tongue calls: discontent. Though I had trod that path for some five years without complaint, quite content even during the middle of the year drizzles that roll slowly through Cyrodiil and speckle the foothills and valleys with a thousand small puddles to ruin one’s shoes in, that day, for reasons unknown even to me, I decided that things needed a change. I veered left.

Usually, at the hill’s crest, I would veer right, to stride eagerly over the well-worn path which led back to the road. But this day, of all days, I decided to veer left. For a time I was forced to swing my sturdy walking stick around in a sharp arc, beating back the thick grass and briars. It proved to be quite a tussle. On several occasions I found myself resting on the various small rocks I encountered in the underbrush, just dabbing the sweat away, idling, and ultimately unsure over whether I made the conscious decision to stop or if my mind had assumed an identity of its own. Given the trouble, I should have turned back; but something unknown and grandiose (desire, I think it is called) compelled me to continue.

Before long, my efforts were rewarded. The grass gave way to a small pond at the foot of a forest—a pleasant little place for a nap. I spread myself out on a smooth slab beside the pond, a few lilies and rose lotuses floating atop the otherwise clear surface. It was bliss, I must admit, to dab a bit of cool water over my cheeks and rest a weary second in that shade. A soft wind blew, and my eyes began to droop…

But my sleep was soon upset by a certain rhythmic pecking—a slapping noise of sorts: sharp, immediate, abrupt, but regular in its intervals, echoing from somewhere in the forest. I stood and squinted through the brush, but soon realized that I would have to venture inward to investigate. A few perilous seconds passed as I considered my predicament. In the end I decided to progress slowly and softly through the thicker areas, allowing me ample cover should the source of the mysterious noise prove a danger. Old man though I am, how could I turn tail and run back? My sense of adventure had led me to that fine pool and now that same sense had my mouth watering in helpless inquiry. A laugh came quietly upon me. I had not felt so fresh and free since the earliest days of my youth. Inward I went.

TO BE CONTINUED.

This post has been edited by Kitchen.Sink: Jul 14 2008, 12:45 AM

[Kitchen.Sink]

The trek was surprisingly short. In an earthy indent at the center of an open grove, I caught sight of perhaps the silliest spectacle I had ever seen. An elderly Redguard, blindfolded, his frizzled hair more grey than black, stood heaving and panting as he repeatedly struck his cane onto the side of a tree trunk. Each swing of the cane brought a distinct snapping noise as one piece of wood met another, a lacquered redwood pitted against the trunk’s smooth pine (smooth, because apparently the old man had been at it for so long that he had stripped the bark entirely off the lower region of the tree). I might have laughed were the sight not so bizarre.

“You there!” I called out to him. “What has that tree done to upset you so?”

Instead of turning his face in my direction, he perked his ears up as he swiveled his head around, which led me to conclude that he had been blind for quite some time.

“Who’s there?” He called back.

“I’m just a wanderer. I was about to take a nap at a pond not too far from here when I heard all your ruckus. I am an old man myself, so please explain: why are you wasting so much of your precious energy smashing the bark off that tree?”

He planted his cane into the earth and steadied his weight a second on its tip. “Sir, I find it quite insulting that you refer to this ridgepole as a tree. What sort of fool do you take me for?”

“Ridgepole?” I asked. “You mean the kind that hold up houses? Really, sir, reach out and touch it! The tree you’ve been striking stands as straight as…as a tree! Reach out and touch it!”

He reached out and ran a timid hand over the trunk. “Yes, I know the feeling well. This is Jerrick’s ridgepole. Without a doubt.”

By this point I was laughing. “Sir, ridgepoles run horizontally. They are near the roof of a dwelling.”

“Not Jerrick’s. His is in the center of his house and runs upward.”

“Then that cannot rightly be called a ridgepole. Besides, how could you possibly think that you are indoors? Reach down, there is dirt at your feet!”

He stooped over a second with a silly smirk wrinkled over his face, much like the smiling of a child who holds a cookie behind his back as he tells his mum that he never touched the candy jar—a stupid, childish smile. He asked, “What is your name, sir?”

“Harold.”

“Oh,” he said as he shifted his weight off the cane. “You must be a Nord, I can tell by your voice.”

“Yes, your ears serve you well.”

“I am well aware of that fact. And, right now, my ears are telling me that you quite clearly have Jerrick’s voice.”

“Me?” I asked, approaching the point of uncontrolled laughter. “Sir, as I stated already, my name is Harold. I live in a cottage just south of Skingrad. Ask anyone around town, plenty can attest to this.”

“In addition,” he continued as if I had interrupted him, “you try to convince me that I am not indoors. Everyone knows that Jerrick’s house has dirt all over the floor.”

“Sir, I doubt that this Jerrick has miles of dirt over his floor, which is what you would find beneath your feet if you were to begin digging.”

He seized his cane and raised it over his head with an animal-like ferocity, a certain swift fierceness in the motion reminiscent of giant felines before a pounce. By that point I had concluded that he most certainly was insane. He said, “Now you mock me! Jerrick, you scoundrel, I’ve finally found you!”

Much to my surprise, the man’s hearing was so acute that he had pinpointed my position solely from the bits of our brief dialogue and began, with that same madman’s speed, to charge in a straight line for me. I pivoted on my heels quickly and sprinted back through the underbrush, the low branches scratching and slicing my withered skin as I ran. He was closer than I would care to admit. However, the scramble through the virgin brush allowed me to gain a considerable lead over him (he is blind, after all). Both of our clothes were torn, both of us were bleeding from little clusters of cuts. By the time the forest opened into a vast field of wildgrass, I found myself well ahead of the lunatic, the only thing pounding harder than my heart was my tender little feet. The man was still giving chase, still hard on my heels.

Suddenly it occurred to me that he could only tail me with his ears—his faculty for sound being both his boon and his breaking. I stopped running. As fast as my feet had skid to stillness, he planted his heels into the earth and halted in mid-stride, quickly swiveling his ears from one side to the other, desperate for even the slightest of sounds. Again, the man startled me. Each step he took, even after my stopping, was taken slowly and perilously in my direction.

A mad panic. How was he still tracking me? A thousand questions a second. I placed a hand over my heart to test some silly theory that he was somehow hearing my heartbeat, when, as soon as my hand had settled on my chest, the true culprit was revealed. I was gasping, heaving violently for any precious swell of breath. Meanwhile, the madman was coming closer.

This time I panicked in want of options. My lungs were struggling so desperately that the simple act of standing was sapping all my strength, not to mention a resumption of my previous sprint. I could not run, nor could I remain. Each of his slow, attentive steps were bringing him closer and closer. Though my sight was speckling with stars (the kind that precede a deep faint) I could clearly see the man some ten or eleven steps behind me. I drew my cane a little closer.

Then came the only thing that could have tipped the heavy scales out of his favor—a sudden, irrepressible miracle. The autumn wind began to howl across the whole field; the thunderous, triumphant sound of miles of high grass in full sway enveloped the area. His head went into a wild pivot, revealing instantly that his hearing had been overwhelmed in the roar of noise. I nearly wept. Thrusting my bent and trembling body over the crux of my cane, I hobbled off; bleeding, half crying, and even for miles after he had receded from my sight, seeing his enraged face appear on my inner eyelids each time I dared to blink.

Once home, I found that I could only pace back and forth outside my door for several hours, unable or perhaps unwilling to understand all that had happened.

TO BE CONTINUED.

This post has been edited by Kitchen.Sink: Jul 14 2008, 12:45 AM