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Original fiction: Meanderings
2170 words. G. Following on from Inexplicable, Remembering, Reminiscence, Memory, Eternal, Cycles, Demonology, Argot and Analogy.
Language, demons, food stuffs and a little bit of evolutionary theory. Monsters in their towers occasionally have quite a bit to say.
In honour of the today's nodal point which I shall henceforth term Node Day; the birthday of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nekonexus.
Meanderings
Disclaimer: Original fiction.
++++++++++
F’nerg. It is not one of my favourite words but one used quite often though it unfortunately doesn’t really translate into the human tongue. Human language is an odd thing anyway; it is there but not there where it should be. It occurs somewhere near the roof of my mouth and at the edge of my tongue, which is not a place that language should necessarily be. Wine goes in those places and fine ale and sometimes a mouthful or two of wild rice. It is a place for tasting and dissolving in the mouth. It’s certainly not where one’s language should be.
Language, real language, the speech of soldiers and saints should be further back, hidden from the interruption of excessive air. It should be at the top of the windpipe and in the passages that ventilate the nasal cavity. Language should be there in that place were subtle resonance and depth of sound can be produced by one’s throat. One tastes one’s tea at the front and stores linguistics at the back. Not so humans though. No, humans are awkward on occasion and they put their language in with their food. Language is not a spice though and there it does not belong. It is not a garnish to be added to a dish; it is its core substance. But even human written language is awkward and full of strange angles and loops that do not belong. They seem to think that to add a loop or two makes it elegant as far as I understand but I have seen more elegance in the tumble of bats falling from my tower. They glide and swoop and in their movements seek to learn the grace of dragons. Small fury ones, with ruffs but dragons nonetheless.
If I were possessed of a ruff perhaps I would wear it less elegantly than they do for lack of a natural inclination. The nearest I’ve ever grown to wearing such a thing may be the fur trim of my winter cloak and often I huffed into the soft fur to warm it. We skin the pelts off things, my people, we use up all parts that can be of use and the same can be said whether we are hunting game or organizing an Empire. We have the time to learn to. Time to figure out what is and is not wrong in the usage. Humans have much less time and thus are driven to force nature’s hand. We force no such resolution; we simply wait.
There is an old story about a dragon and a hare. The tale goes that the hare believed the dragon hungry and through many tricks and illusions thought he’d thwarted the dragon’s gaze. The years turned and turned again and eventually in the fullness of time the hare died. And as the body wove its way back into the earth after the turning of the year; the dragon blinked. She was not hungry; merely resting.
Thus the moral of the Empire; we can wait and we are not hurried.
The last time I hurried involved a sneeze and the movement to hold a hanky to my face was rushed. I have been sneezing a little of late which leads me to suspect that there is new dust on my books. The old dust does not make me sneeze. New dust then may be indication that my books need using. Some have sat too long sleeping and are now bored. Perhaps then today I will take down a volume on knives; a quasi-military text that may well have been of equal use to a hunter. And I will look and I will study and remember. Maybe following that I will peruse a text on metallurgy and in specific the correct fashioning of sorcerer blades. Perhaps I will not. Perhaps I will forsake practical matters of the facile and carefully hold an ancient text in my hands as I study the correct manner in which to bind a demon creature that humans, I suspect, would call an ifrit. As I recall, the binding must be enacted through some form of jewellery, preferably in the form of a chain around wrist or ankle. Though would such a creature really have wrists or ankles? I could always summon my own allies and question them but that would make a sorry tale for many words do not translate into the human tongue and it would grow tedious to hear me repeat the term ‘demon’ many times over.
And I am not in the business of binding wilful demons. Those I call allies are those that I trade with. We are not quite master and slave in any estimation. Besides, common lore tells me that this brand of demon requires plying with jewels every so often and pretty silks and as such the entire procedure would be much like courting a lover. And I have no sudden need for lovers or an extra and insubstantial body taking up space by my hearth.
Besides, I’ve heard that it depends on what manner of one you summon anyway. Some are towering creatures of battle, some devour human souls, some are capable of imbuing their summoner with a glamour so potent that he or she might have nations worshiping at their feet. But none of those are the sort I’d be after. What use have I for further war allies? What use for such a glamour? No, the sort I would summon would be of the quieter type. The ones who smell of dust and spices, who have learned all the lore that has ever been written and who will impart some small portion of their wisdom in exchange for favours; some small, some vast. Some require the telling of a riddle of fantastical proportions and it must be one that they have not yet heard while others simply require a cup of the right sort of tea.
The right sort of tea for old monsters is a smoky brew, full of old leaves and burning oak. Brewed long for strength of flavour. It is not a human sort of tea really and probably not favoured by most demons. I’ve heard plenty of them enjoy sweet teas with portions of sugar and sometimes cinnamon to give a little heat. Sweet tea is too soft for me, too flavourless and full of things I cannot taste. Even the strongest of cardamom teas are not fully tasted in much the same way as plenty of root vegetables. We are a carnivorous people, though we do not object to other things tossed in with our meat. We measure things in stews and pies and roasted venison. Heavy stock and meaty soups. I hear that as much meat as we consume might irreparably damage a human. Perhaps that is truly the case, the blame laid upon their physiology. They have strange teeth after all. Some for tearing meat but also some for chewing grasses. Strange thing, that. What would I do with grasses?
I am not so fond of plenty of human food. Not many of our people are. Though there are human cooks who’ve learned the art of eating, of roasting haunches of fresh kill or slowly boiling flanks to make them tender. A few human cooks when first we came to peace but these days there are many. They come to the cities to learn the flavours of meat and practice a special form of language in the shapes that can be formed in the air with their hands. It may be in fact the language of palace kitchens where there is too much clanking of pans and slamming of plates for anybody to be heard. It is the language of the cooks of the Empire after all, who are loathed to share their esoteric secrets.
It’s a funny thing really, to think that after all this time, all this warfare, it is the human nations who come to us with trade agreements and peaceful envoys looking for assurance that the black armies won’t march again. We won’t at any rate, not soon, not for a long while. They’ll have to pry me from my tower if those fools among the Senatus want me to do anything with so little notice anyway. And they won’t; we are at peace now and the Empire needs a market for its grain. Not that grain is all we trade these days but the axiom stands nonetheless. We need willing markets; they need produce. It works, it is a reasonable balance. There will not be war again for another thousand years at least. Well, perhaps for another five hundred.
The great cities of the Empire can manage just as well in peacetimes anyway. Our centres of learning and artistry are legend and though it is impossible to instruct outsiders in all aspects of our craft it is not so difficult to teach some of it to them. We are a popular destination for scholars, for philosophers and politicians. In the past artisans came in their droves, sculptors and architects mostly, then the textiles merchants and skilled loom-weavers. After then followed painters and apothecaries, then cooks and translators. That pilgrimage has happened in stages, the manner of traveller changing over time. Interestingly enough they do not send their young soldiers to us to better learn our manner of warfare. One would think that that would be the prime ideal; to send those who could learn our ways and then how to counter them. But instead they watch from afar, never quite overcoming their suspicions and the belief that we will not offer them a fair game. We would of course, it would be rather unsporting to do otherwise but since they do not come we simply do not have to. The rules of the hunt are fairly simple but as long as they view these ancient rules with suspicion these small nations invariably stand to lose.
But the black armies are not marching and their General sits in his tower and quietly sips his tea. It is one of those days after all. A day when there is something that may yet be nothing moving in the heavens and suddenly the air already smells of winter spices. I suspect of course that at some point recently on one of his visits, my second has sequestered a clove-stuffed orange among my shelves. The last time he visited I was soaking my feet and the air smelt of astringent leaves and hot water. He was most put out and I waved my toes at him in dismissal. I had been distracted at the time, curiously studying my own feet and the telltale bump on each respective foot that somebody once had the audacity to suggest was a vestigial fifth toe. What do I need five toes for? Certainly, I am capable of balancing just as well with four on each side. Humans of course seem to require five to keep themselves upright but I am not human and as such not prey to such limitation.
Strangely somebody, some dusty scholar, quite recently proposed that we of the Empire might in fact have been born of the same root race as the human nations. It is a curious theory certainly and not likely to be a popular one. I’m not sure that I’d believe it myself if not for the fact that interbreeding is of course possible. But then horses and donkeys too can breed amongst themselves. If such a thing were possible I suspect that it could be the case that having a common ancestor, some portion of that line may have bred with… dragons, I suppose or at least a descendent race from those august ancestors, thus producing the Imperial citizenry as they current are. While the portion of that ancestral line that merely bred amongst themselves became the human nations as they are now. It’s entirely possible and wouldn’t be at all contrary to either our or their lineage. But it would be unpopular to both populations. To the humans who will secretly whisper in their most hate-filled moments that they are not reptilian beasts and to the noble citizens who still call the human nations uncivilized animals. Of course at the best of times I am no better. I still consider the human nations to be painfully young and unlearned but perhaps, if I were feeling ornery, I might at least argue that that were a product of my age and that I consider our own young citizens to be lacking just as much.
I am too old to be having these same debates again anyway. Too tired to do much more than warm myself before the fire. My tea grows cold already and thus right now the greatest endeavour to which I will turn my attention is making myself another cup. And the rest of it, even the very turning of the world itself; can simply wait till I am done.
++++++++++
Language, demons, food stuffs and a little bit of evolutionary theory. Monsters in their towers occasionally have quite a bit to say.
In honour of the today's nodal point which I shall henceforth term Node Day; the birthday of
nekonexus.Meanderings
Disclaimer: Original fiction.
++++++++++
F’nerg. It is not one of my favourite words but one used quite often though it unfortunately doesn’t really translate into the human tongue. Human language is an odd thing anyway; it is there but not there where it should be. It occurs somewhere near the roof of my mouth and at the edge of my tongue, which is not a place that language should necessarily be. Wine goes in those places and fine ale and sometimes a mouthful or two of wild rice. It is a place for tasting and dissolving in the mouth. It’s certainly not where one’s language should be.
Language, real language, the speech of soldiers and saints should be further back, hidden from the interruption of excessive air. It should be at the top of the windpipe and in the passages that ventilate the nasal cavity. Language should be there in that place were subtle resonance and depth of sound can be produced by one’s throat. One tastes one’s tea at the front and stores linguistics at the back. Not so humans though. No, humans are awkward on occasion and they put their language in with their food. Language is not a spice though and there it does not belong. It is not a garnish to be added to a dish; it is its core substance. But even human written language is awkward and full of strange angles and loops that do not belong. They seem to think that to add a loop or two makes it elegant as far as I understand but I have seen more elegance in the tumble of bats falling from my tower. They glide and swoop and in their movements seek to learn the grace of dragons. Small fury ones, with ruffs but dragons nonetheless.
If I were possessed of a ruff perhaps I would wear it less elegantly than they do for lack of a natural inclination. The nearest I’ve ever grown to wearing such a thing may be the fur trim of my winter cloak and often I huffed into the soft fur to warm it. We skin the pelts off things, my people, we use up all parts that can be of use and the same can be said whether we are hunting game or organizing an Empire. We have the time to learn to. Time to figure out what is and is not wrong in the usage. Humans have much less time and thus are driven to force nature’s hand. We force no such resolution; we simply wait.
There is an old story about a dragon and a hare. The tale goes that the hare believed the dragon hungry and through many tricks and illusions thought he’d thwarted the dragon’s gaze. The years turned and turned again and eventually in the fullness of time the hare died. And as the body wove its way back into the earth after the turning of the year; the dragon blinked. She was not hungry; merely resting.
Thus the moral of the Empire; we can wait and we are not hurried.
The last time I hurried involved a sneeze and the movement to hold a hanky to my face was rushed. I have been sneezing a little of late which leads me to suspect that there is new dust on my books. The old dust does not make me sneeze. New dust then may be indication that my books need using. Some have sat too long sleeping and are now bored. Perhaps then today I will take down a volume on knives; a quasi-military text that may well have been of equal use to a hunter. And I will look and I will study and remember. Maybe following that I will peruse a text on metallurgy and in specific the correct fashioning of sorcerer blades. Perhaps I will not. Perhaps I will forsake practical matters of the facile and carefully hold an ancient text in my hands as I study the correct manner in which to bind a demon creature that humans, I suspect, would call an ifrit. As I recall, the binding must be enacted through some form of jewellery, preferably in the form of a chain around wrist or ankle. Though would such a creature really have wrists or ankles? I could always summon my own allies and question them but that would make a sorry tale for many words do not translate into the human tongue and it would grow tedious to hear me repeat the term ‘demon’ many times over.
And I am not in the business of binding wilful demons. Those I call allies are those that I trade with. We are not quite master and slave in any estimation. Besides, common lore tells me that this brand of demon requires plying with jewels every so often and pretty silks and as such the entire procedure would be much like courting a lover. And I have no sudden need for lovers or an extra and insubstantial body taking up space by my hearth.
Besides, I’ve heard that it depends on what manner of one you summon anyway. Some are towering creatures of battle, some devour human souls, some are capable of imbuing their summoner with a glamour so potent that he or she might have nations worshiping at their feet. But none of those are the sort I’d be after. What use have I for further war allies? What use for such a glamour? No, the sort I would summon would be of the quieter type. The ones who smell of dust and spices, who have learned all the lore that has ever been written and who will impart some small portion of their wisdom in exchange for favours; some small, some vast. Some require the telling of a riddle of fantastical proportions and it must be one that they have not yet heard while others simply require a cup of the right sort of tea.
The right sort of tea for old monsters is a smoky brew, full of old leaves and burning oak. Brewed long for strength of flavour. It is not a human sort of tea really and probably not favoured by most demons. I’ve heard plenty of them enjoy sweet teas with portions of sugar and sometimes cinnamon to give a little heat. Sweet tea is too soft for me, too flavourless and full of things I cannot taste. Even the strongest of cardamom teas are not fully tasted in much the same way as plenty of root vegetables. We are a carnivorous people, though we do not object to other things tossed in with our meat. We measure things in stews and pies and roasted venison. Heavy stock and meaty soups. I hear that as much meat as we consume might irreparably damage a human. Perhaps that is truly the case, the blame laid upon their physiology. They have strange teeth after all. Some for tearing meat but also some for chewing grasses. Strange thing, that. What would I do with grasses?
I am not so fond of plenty of human food. Not many of our people are. Though there are human cooks who’ve learned the art of eating, of roasting haunches of fresh kill or slowly boiling flanks to make them tender. A few human cooks when first we came to peace but these days there are many. They come to the cities to learn the flavours of meat and practice a special form of language in the shapes that can be formed in the air with their hands. It may be in fact the language of palace kitchens where there is too much clanking of pans and slamming of plates for anybody to be heard. It is the language of the cooks of the Empire after all, who are loathed to share their esoteric secrets.
It’s a funny thing really, to think that after all this time, all this warfare, it is the human nations who come to us with trade agreements and peaceful envoys looking for assurance that the black armies won’t march again. We won’t at any rate, not soon, not for a long while. They’ll have to pry me from my tower if those fools among the Senatus want me to do anything with so little notice anyway. And they won’t; we are at peace now and the Empire needs a market for its grain. Not that grain is all we trade these days but the axiom stands nonetheless. We need willing markets; they need produce. It works, it is a reasonable balance. There will not be war again for another thousand years at least. Well, perhaps for another five hundred.
The great cities of the Empire can manage just as well in peacetimes anyway. Our centres of learning and artistry are legend and though it is impossible to instruct outsiders in all aspects of our craft it is not so difficult to teach some of it to them. We are a popular destination for scholars, for philosophers and politicians. In the past artisans came in their droves, sculptors and architects mostly, then the textiles merchants and skilled loom-weavers. After then followed painters and apothecaries, then cooks and translators. That pilgrimage has happened in stages, the manner of traveller changing over time. Interestingly enough they do not send their young soldiers to us to better learn our manner of warfare. One would think that that would be the prime ideal; to send those who could learn our ways and then how to counter them. But instead they watch from afar, never quite overcoming their suspicions and the belief that we will not offer them a fair game. We would of course, it would be rather unsporting to do otherwise but since they do not come we simply do not have to. The rules of the hunt are fairly simple but as long as they view these ancient rules with suspicion these small nations invariably stand to lose.
But the black armies are not marching and their General sits in his tower and quietly sips his tea. It is one of those days after all. A day when there is something that may yet be nothing moving in the heavens and suddenly the air already smells of winter spices. I suspect of course that at some point recently on one of his visits, my second has sequestered a clove-stuffed orange among my shelves. The last time he visited I was soaking my feet and the air smelt of astringent leaves and hot water. He was most put out and I waved my toes at him in dismissal. I had been distracted at the time, curiously studying my own feet and the telltale bump on each respective foot that somebody once had the audacity to suggest was a vestigial fifth toe. What do I need five toes for? Certainly, I am capable of balancing just as well with four on each side. Humans of course seem to require five to keep themselves upright but I am not human and as such not prey to such limitation.
Strangely somebody, some dusty scholar, quite recently proposed that we of the Empire might in fact have been born of the same root race as the human nations. It is a curious theory certainly and not likely to be a popular one. I’m not sure that I’d believe it myself if not for the fact that interbreeding is of course possible. But then horses and donkeys too can breed amongst themselves. If such a thing were possible I suspect that it could be the case that having a common ancestor, some portion of that line may have bred with… dragons, I suppose or at least a descendent race from those august ancestors, thus producing the Imperial citizenry as they current are. While the portion of that ancestral line that merely bred amongst themselves became the human nations as they are now. It’s entirely possible and wouldn’t be at all contrary to either our or their lineage. But it would be unpopular to both populations. To the humans who will secretly whisper in their most hate-filled moments that they are not reptilian beasts and to the noble citizens who still call the human nations uncivilized animals. Of course at the best of times I am no better. I still consider the human nations to be painfully young and unlearned but perhaps, if I were feeling ornery, I might at least argue that that were a product of my age and that I consider our own young citizens to be lacking just as much.
I am too old to be having these same debates again anyway. Too tired to do much more than warm myself before the fire. My tea grows cold already and thus right now the greatest endeavour to which I will turn my attention is making myself another cup. And the rest of it, even the very turning of the world itself; can simply wait till I am done.
++++++++++
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