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 Posted: Mon Sep 12, 2011 12:11 pm
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Posted: Mon Sep 12, 2011 12:14 pm
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2011 8:14 am
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Posted: Tue Nov 08, 2011 1:31 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 08, 2011 1:34 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 08, 2011 1:35 pm
ok, reserved for an rp with hedj maybe and then that is enough rps, after that, NO MORE, IT IS GODDAMN SOLO TIME.
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Posted: Thu Nov 17, 2011 10:43 am
Tristram plunges through the deepening snow, and in doing so, makes Hopkin's world rattle. Shyregoadian trails are not as clear as those of Imisus, bramble and bracken-strewn with deep banks and rocky rubble to disrupt even the most careful caravan, and Wickwright's little wagon is no exception to the travails faced by travelers in the frigid north. Hopkin stumbles and startles as their voyage plows forward, trying hard to think of the reason they are on the trail and be grateful they're moving rather than be overcome by his own discomforts. Nothing about Shyregoad seems pleasant to him, and even the enjoyable things, such as Estratus's sword's hair, are marred by asymmetricality and other such miserable nonsense. Imisus makes more sense in his mind, and he has no idea why the Jawbone Men put the Collection in Shyregoad. Perhaps, he supposes, because if it were not, there would be no truth at all in this terrible land.
There is some truth in the wagon at least, and somehow, despite the disruptions of the road, Wickwright is still writing, scrawling letters and reflections onto parchment at his desk, which rattles back and forth as he does so. Hopkin seeks the relative pillar of stability and eventually manages to make his way to his Grimm, clinging to his leg and tugging on the hem of his trousers, begging to be let up. Wickwright obliges him, lifts his little-big Plague onto his shoulder, and lets him watch as he completes a missive to be sent back to Imisus with a flourish. "Fleck asked to be kept informed," he explains, folding up the letter and sealing it with wax pressed into shape by means of his thumb, "If I continue to do him favours, he continues to do them for me. Reciprocity is a wonderful thing, wouldn't you say, Hopkin?"
Hopkin is barely capable of replying, as at that moment, Tristram rather ungracefully navigates a ditch and the whole wagon is sent rattling, Wickwright's quick reflexes barely manage to keep the inkwell from spilling over. "Ah! I do wish that Tristram would reciprocate the care we give him," says the Plague bitterly, rubbing his round head where it hit Wickwright's jaw. "How are we supposed to think properly whilst the wagon shakes about so violently?"
"We'll have to manage somehow," replies Wickwright lightly, "I don't intend our meeting with Paxton to go as poorly as our meeting with O'Neill." The mention of the meeting has an immediate effect on Hopkin, and suddenly, the rattling of the wagon seems an infinitesimally small concern. Perhaps out of pity for the Plague that suddenly seems sick to his brassy stomach, the Grimm added, "Paxton will be more receptive if we're careful." He adds the tiniest amount of emphasis on the careful part. Hopkin is good at careful, but bad at subtle. "He's been O'Neill's man for a long time, it's true, but O'Neill didn't outright refuse you, so it's simply a matter of construing the issue so it isn't a case of us against him." He steeples his fingers and pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment in a temporary lull in the wagon's motion, contemplating it as if to divine the correct course of action from its off-white surface.
"I don't understand why we must convince him at all," Hopkin insists miserably, glancing up at Wickwright. "I told O'Neill, and it is true, what I say, I am not against any contribution rules at all. I'm still your contribution!" He collapses sullenly on Wickwright's shoulder, and in doing so, almost tips himself over- sudden movements are far too dangerous in the wagon's present state.
Wickwright, reaching out a hand to steady his Plague, gives him a grimace. "Hopkin, some new things simply take explaining. You're my book, but even you must admit that outwardly, you're radically altered."
"Wickwright Finch, I am plagued," corrects the bronze boy.
"And that, my careful contribution," the mendicant presses, unperturbed, "Requires explaining. We both know the truth, now we must elucidate the matter to the Society. It's hardly any different from any other contribution presentation, merely that we must put more effort in." Seeing that his Plague is not best pleased with his reply, there's a moment of silence in which Tristram takes the opportunity to lump over a rut, shaking the entirety of the wagon with considerable violence. Once the pair manage to compose themselves, Wickwright's reflexes have failed him, and the ink pot is knocked over, spilling onto the fresh sheet of parchment like molasses on snow. He lets out a curse under his breath, as both ink and parchment are things he cannot very well afford to waste, then opts to make the best of it, placing Hopkin on the edge of the ruined paper. "At any rate, Paxton is far more similar to us than O'Neill. Surely he'll be more sympathetic. You know why, right, Hopkin?"
"Paxton studies the stories in the sky," replies the book boy, "And we study the stories on the Earth." Being able to provide a correct answer cheers him somewhat, and encouraged by this, he goes on. "Does Paxton also have a book?"
Wickwright shakes his head. "Not quite as you know them, Hopkin." Taking the splattered page, he dips his brush into a puddle of white paint near Hopkin's feet, sketching stars messily onto the paper. "He makes maps of the stories in the sky as well as tells them. He's not just a storyteller, our Paxton. He's a cartographer, in a sense. The stories in Panymium's sky are not so much like those on Earth, they're almost all visible and are almost always changing position on the pages of atmosphere he reads them from. But read them he does, and that is why he's so far North, to have a better view of the truths that the sky shows us." Leaning back to look at his handiwork, he angles the paper towards Hopkin, adding, "There's the sky in an Imisese summer. When I was a youth in Rosstead, he visited once to see those skies, and he, my father, and I spoke at length about tales both tied to Earth and Heaven."
Hopkin regards the page, but try as he might, he can't discern any truth from the collection of dots Wickwright put on his ink-splattered parchment. Looking up with considerable concern, he asks, "Wickwright, will I ever be able to understand these writings? I don't see how anybody could divine a narrative from such strange symbols."
"Perhaps Paxton will tell you, if you are very good," Wickwright replies airily. "If you can make him trust you, he will be open to all your queries."
The page lingers in Hopkin's mind for the remainder of the restless day. Though Shyregoad is bumpy and unpleasant, he realizes that his life was in turmoil long before he came to the icy country. Ever since the moment he was plagued, everything became a matter of proof and problems, and the unreadable page and inhospitable terrain are the least of what seems to be a mountain of concerns. What comforts him is that both he and Wickwright know the truth of the matter, and, much like how Tristram makes progress though the path is perilous, so, too, will he eventually overcome and prove his worth as a contribution.
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Posted: Wed Nov 23, 2011 1:17 am
[Paxton was a strong and able man, and he alone of the Jawbone Man was chosen to travel with O'Neill, despite his title's relative youth. Steady and faithful, he kept the ways of truth in his heart more easily than the other men of the bone, for unlike they, whose eyes were focused firmly on the imperfect and flawed natural world, he looked skywards. The stars tell no lies, and in that way, he was more a man of truth than his fellows, which the noble O'Neill appreciated. Long did he follow the sky and O'Neill, mapping the truths that he saw in the starlight, but even he could not escape the disruption that Kingsley created upon attempting to create a Jawbone throne to ascend to more readily than any celestial object would ascend in the sky.
DIVIDED were the Jawbone Men by treacherous Kinsgsley,
Companions and friends found themselves on two sides.
What fool would trust the sincerity of his brother?
The hands embracing them might conceal a dagger.
O'NEILL stood reluctant against threat of corruption,
But they trusted him little, not wanting two tyrants.
Try as he might, O'Neill's fight was pathetic, no hunger drove it,
Such as Kingsley's men had and were moved by with zeal.
DISCOURAGED, O'Neill was about to surrender,
As Kingsley gained power and he was damned by those crimes.
What protector would want to protect his accusers?
BUT Paxton, upon swearing his faithful allegiance,
Heard out O'Neill's fears and self-doubts.
No alarm fell from his steady lips,
But instead sound advice, for the sake of Society.
[P] LO, O'neill, why wouldst thou speak of surrender?
Thou art the only man willing to fight.
The strongest amongst our broken remainder,
And so in thy hands dost thou hold wounded Truth.
IF thou must be branded a tyrant for stopping one,
So be it, let not this untruth stop thee.
For thou art amongst the Men of the Bone,
And amongst us, the truth will always out.
[O] PAXTON, thy words are measured and wise,
Yet thou art too optimistic and naive.
Staring at stars, you know only the best of man,
Those few who have transcended the heavens are the company thou keepst.
WHAT can a sky tell thee of the treacheries of men?
There is no celestial map to guide mine feet to victory.
I can offer no proof but what I've provided, it is they who have deemed my actions impure,
And thus, unopposed, another rotten man will corrupt this Society wholly.
[P] DESPITE thy skepticism, the stars tell me tales both grand and clear,
Whose truths transcend the average and are purer than the deeds which forged them.
Many constellated men were utterly hated in their times, O'Neill,
And yet now they stand in the starlight for the majesty of their deeds.
PRAISE so great, thou shalt not receive from the Jawbone Men.
Thy actions will not be lauded for many generations,
And yet, if there is a truth worth fighting for, thou must strive to defend it.
So long as there is a truth for me to defend, O'Neill, thou shalt never be wholly alone.
O'NEILL considered Paxton's words, and all he said was just.
At least one true Man of Bone remained in Shyregoad,
The knowledge stirred hope in his chest, and he rose,
Thanking the man for his moment of clarity.
IN that moment, the bond between Paxton and O'Neill was formed.
O'Neill became to Paxton a living constellation,a hero amongst men.
For many years hence, Paxton traveled with O'Neill,
And kept his initial vow of loyalty long after the Kingsley affair had died.
THE bird most easily lost will strive to fly closest to the flock.
Paxton was no different, O'Neill tied him to the earth.
And together, they made good on their promise to stop Kingsley,
Determined that while they worked in tandem, no Society would be divided.
DIVIDED.]
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Posted: Sat Nov 26, 2011 7:21 pm
There is a great divide between Wickwright Finch and Jeremiah Paxton as the northern winds whip around them. Between them, but not too far, are Wickwright's hands, and in his hands is his abomination, as O'Neill might refer to it, or Hopkin, as it might refer to itself.
"Hello," offers the thing with some trepidation, clutching its tiny metal hands nervously onto Wickwright's fingers.
"Come along inside then," Paxton replies after a long pause, turning away and heading back to the cabin that he calls home, cloak swishing softly behind him as it drags over the drifts. The Grimm and Plague behind him glance at each other, insofar as what Hopkin glances at can be discerned, and follow, Grimm picking up Tristram's reins and leading the ox in their wake.
Five minutes ago, the situation had seemed far more hopeful. Paxton had caught sight of Wickwright long before he had seen the cabin in the distance and rushed out to meet him, cheeks flushed red from the pleasure of welcome company, and greeted him warmly in the Shyregoadian cold. They had enthusiastically discussed stories and reminisced, and then, under the impression of amicable brotherhood, Wickwright had foolishly told him the truth when he asked the reason for his friend's visit. And then, even more foolishly, shown him the evidence of that reason, usually confined the the hidden recesses of his writing bag. Paxton's face had turned a most terrible hue, the shade of the snow he strode through, and Hopkin's stomach had turned cold as ice. He wanted nothing more than to hide in Wickwright's sleeve like he had around frightening Clurie Not-Clemmings and just stay in there until the situation was over, let Wickwright convince Paxton to attend the meeting without so much as witnessing the proceedings. But this business is his concern, and as Wickwright's book, he is obliged to involve himself in it. Gone are the days when he might passively allow a narrative to be written in him by a friendly author's hand, and now stories have to be memorized, experienced, and repeated if he wants to keep them in his mind. Thus, he reluctantly opts to remain visible as they enter Paxton's cabin and he turns to face them, sitting himself down in one of two rough wooden chairs.
"All right," relents the Jawbone Man wearily, rubbing his temples, "Tell me this earthbound story, Finch." With his surrender, there soon unfolds a story that seems to take far longer than it had to experience, hesitant and delicate, with Hopkin interjecting with corrections every so often as the pair try to explain how Hopkin has come to be and what has happened since. A painful narrative, but unlike O'Neill, Paxton merely listens, making no sign of approval or disapproval on any point. The meeting with O'Neill in question is skimmed as briefly as possible, and even Hopkin allows Wickwright to escape with his omissions, unwilling to live through the worrisome memory again. Paxton is able to listen without complaint, as he himself is a storyteller, but he is still more O'Neill's man than Finch has ever been, and knowing how dismissive O'Neill had been could only harm them. Finally, Wickwright concludes with their meeting of the Grand Magus and her Sword, taking a breath and glancing down at Paxton, who drums his fingers on the edge of the chair, trying to make sense of a story that is already growing confused and massive.
"Then we came here," ends Wickwright, sitting himself down on the other chair wearily, careful not to tip Hopkin in his hand as he does so.
"So O'Neill wants a meeting to discuss your contribution, which is..."
"Plagued," Wickwright confirms. "And he certainly suggested that was an option." He fails to add that what O'Neill had actually suggested was Wickwright arrange a meeting himself if he wanted one so badly, since he would offer him no help in such a destructive and distracting course of action. It is close enough.
Close enough is not good enough for Hopkin, who interjects with, "Hopkin. My name is Hopkin. I am a plagued book boy contribution, but mostly the book part so I am still a contribution very much so. But those are many words, so I am just called Hopkin." Precision is important to him, especially around Jawbone Men, and he cannot help but hope that the more accurate his truths are, the more likely they are to accept him. It is a book's job to elucidate, and he puffs out his chest as he tries to prove he is still capable of his single task.
Paxton frowns. "I need time," he admits, eyeing the Plague that is wringing its metal hands with an irritating squeak as it waits. "This is a most unusual matter, and I don't want to make a poorly formed decision."
"Well, I hate to be insistent, my friend, but I desire to know your answer. I need you to convey the news to the Jawbone Men in your area if you're willing, otherwise we will both be old before this meeting convenes." Paxton raises an eyebrow, and Wickwright amends, "Older."
"You can stay until I give my reply, how is that, Finch? I do miss company this far North, even O'Neill rarely visits me as opposed to me traveling southward to him. You and I can amuse each other with stories, if you wish. It's been too long since I heard of the lands you travel through." Wickwright opens his mouth and Paxton holds up a hand, adding, "But no talk of your cont- Hopkin. I know how tricky your tongue is, Wickwright Finch, and I am not canny enough to fend off your arguments. Allow me to consider the problem without your sly interference or my answer will be a defensive no."
A grimace, Wickwright desires to press onwards rather than linger in Paxton's home with no idea whether he is making progress, but he nods. "Very well," he agrees, reaching across the gap between them to set Hopkin on the table. "We wait on your word." Hopkin, sitting in between the divide, is rendered miserable. A Jawbone Man's word is a most heavy thing to wait for.
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Posted: Sun Dec 25, 2011 10:13 pm
Hopkin wakes to a bright world and takes a moment to adjust. The view from Paxton's window continually surprises him, it is so bare and empty so far north that the excito needs no book bag to hide him while he wanders the dream world. The Shyregoadian countryside is a blank page, no characters but he, Paxton, and Wickwright walk it, and they leave dark, deep footprints like ink in their wake as they explore the white wilderness. Wickwright is out now, tending to Tristram, and Hopkin lies back in the pile of rags he has lain in these weeks, listening to the ox stamp and steam. These few days have been filled with nothing, yet at the same time, have been bursting with a great and idyllic peace. After March, it seemed to Hopkin that he'd been doing nothing but running from some great, faceless beast. Now, suffocating in the thick, soft silence that envelops Paxton's home, Hopkin is wrapped in a delicious sense of relief, short lived as it may be. He has never felt so safe since he first developed the sentience of a Plagued thing, for one condemned as a hunter of men, he has been most direly hunted.
Paxton notices him stirring at his desk and moves over to look. Unable to tell if the still little Plague is awake with no eyes to reference, he tickles the bronze boy with the end of his quill, is satisfied with a cry and a wriggle that causes him to smile. "Good morn to you!" the thing exclaims, clutching at the feather for a reprieve.
"Good morn, Hopkin," replies Paxton, leaning back over his work. "Are you rested?"
Hopkin grins faintly and nods in return, he enjoys Paxton's quiet company. "I am well rested. Are you not up early, Paxton?"
"Ah, today is a special day, Hopkin," Paxton replies, eyes glimmering merrily. "Has Wickwright not told you? We have a visit from O'Neill-" he stops as Hopkin lets out a dismayed squeak, laughs, and adds, "-Junior."
Hopkin's confusion is evident, and perplexity crosses Paxton's features for a moment, before realization dawns over his face. "Ah, but you wouldn't know much about the little ones, would you? You're quite little yourself, but Finch writes of the past, and runs into the future blindly." He spies the Plague's dismay at his own ignorance and waves a hand. "All is well, little Hopkin. I am kept most direly out of touch as well, but for what O'Neill brings me news of. O'Neill junior, Tadhg O'Neill, is O'Neill's own son, and soon to be a new-minted Jawbone Man, if my correspondence with his father is any indication. He does not visit to evaluate you, frightened Plague. The honour is for me alone." He is rewarded with Hopkin's shoulders sloping, relaxing very slightly, but visibly so. The pressure of one Jawbone Man's forestalled judgement is enough to bear for now, and he has no desire to see fierce O'Neill senior anytime soon.
At that moment, Wickwright stamps in, and from the dark look on his face, it is clear that he has already been informed of O'Neill younger's impending arrival. Paxton flashes a genial smile, waving a hand at his fellow as the snow falls from his boots. "Ah, Finch. Is Tristram well?"
"He's bloody brilliant," Wickwright retorts, smiling back glassily. "When is dear Tadhg coming, the last time I saw him, he was no larger than my..."
"Shoulder?" Paxton offers.
"No, knee." Wickwright decides.
"You never had much time for the younger ones, Finch," Paxton notes gravely, applying drying powder to the page he's been working on all this while. "Not even your Feilim."
"He's not my Feilim, he's Feardoc's Feilim-"
"Feardoc Finch was once a Jawbone candidate, but as I recall, you were the one who secured your father's legacy, not him."
"And Feilim has in no way secured mine, yet you all act as if I was already dead and gone where he's concerned! It's damnably morbid."
"Well, do you have a son squirreled away somewhere, or are you going to mysteriously procure a successor from the air at your time of death? Feilim is a lone pawn on an empty board when it comes to the game of the Finch legacy."
"I don't know," Wickwright begrudges, clapping his hands to his face to rub some heat back into their rosy surface. "Must I decide now, when so many larger concerns occupy us all?"
"You have reached the age where if you do not, we must fear a day that there will be no Finch at all," Paxton responds implacably.
"Yes, well, that day will come anyway if I don't sort out my contri-"
Paxton raises an eyebrow.
"Yes, yes, all right! I remember, no talk of Plagues." Wickwright threw his spindly hands heavenwards, and until the evening, Hopkin's peaceful respite is disrupted by the uncomfortable silence of estranged friends. By sunhigh, the the disruptive knock on the door is almost welcome. Almost. As Paxton opens the door and gestures Tadhg O'Neill into his home, Hopkin watches from a hiding place, unable to help his own terrible fear. Wickwright has no such option, and is too old to fear a boy so young anyway.
"Uncle Paxton," Tadhg greets warmly, embracing the resident Jawbone Man. Tadhg is long and thick-set, with a mess of darkish red hair that haloes around an equally red face, marred by freckles, stubble, and an ungainly scar running round his ear. His lips are chapped and crack a bit as he smiles, procuring a wince just as soon as the grin. But it is easy to see that in Tadhg's actions, there is all the confidence that Feilim lacks. Whilst Feilim's imitation of Wickwright is carefully studied, forced, and planned, Tadhg seems to have been born an O'Neill, unconsciously filling his father's boots and preparing to step into a role he was raised, not taught, to play. There is a difference, it seems to Hopkin. Feilim pursues approval as he does, Tadhg strolls into Paxton's home expecting approval to be given to him regardless. Paxton grants the expectation, embracing him with fatherly affection, and even Wickwright, who was hardly looking forward to the visit, grins and clasps Tadhg's hand. Tadhg looks at Wickwright with considerable bewilderment. "Uncle Paxton, who is this? I hope I'm not interrupting company."
Wickwright looks taken aback, perhaps having never fully realized the implications of straying so far from the younger Jawbone Men, but asserts himself. "I am Finch," he greets. "The last time I saw you, you were much younger than you are today."
Tadhg stares at Wickwright for a moment longer than Hopkin is comfortable with. It is not a friendly stare, that stare. Nor is it particularly malicious, but there is a sort of sad, shocked blame about it that hurts Hopkin somewhere in his chest. It is the same look Feilim gave Wickwright after the Plagued Bunting finished her accusations. It is not something that Hopkin wants to remember.
"Ah, yes, Finch," Tadhg says finally. "Feilim speaks of you often."
As if attempting to brush off unspoken accusations, Wickwright levels, "Yes, dear Feilim! I saw him not half a a year hence, in March."
"And what have you been doing since, dear Finch?"
"Pursuing the truth, as all good Jawbone Men do."
Paxton coughs uncomfortably. "Tadhg, you wrote ahead of how you wished to see me on business."
"It's true, and I cannot stay long," replies Tadhg, allowing the topic to stray from the uncomfortable road it wandered onto. "A few days would suit me down to the ground if you can spare the room, but if the inn is full, I shan't linger. I've been sent by my father to inform you that the raids in Imisus have affected poor Yawley. He requires aid now that winter is upon us, and I am messenger to all Jawbone Men in the area, yet most are unable or unwilling to help. In Imisus, many are still recovering, and as Gadu was hardest hit, few are willing to journey there even now. Yawley, however, insists he cannot leave the capital, and he is young and quite alone in Gadu. His mother, Truth take her, passed this very year."
"She was not an old woman," Paxton notes with concern.
"Can you blame her? She lost almost everyone she held dear, including Old Richard."
All three men lower their heads, remembering the epidemic that killed Yawley senior the year prior. Wickwright breaks the silence first. "I can go," he decides. Paxton and Tadhg both look up in considerable surprise. "Well, I can. Paxton is too busy studying the stars and knows nothing of real labour. I've been doing odd jobs since before I can remember, and Imisus is my home anyway. I have been in Gadu of late, and know of the circumstances Yawley must be facing."
"Finch," Paxton murmurs, "You are on pressing business here with me, are you not?"
Wickwright smiles grimly. "Yawley is too young to face such peril alone, and until he can gain enough confidence to fill his father's boots, he needs guidance. I am the most senior of the Imisese Jawbone Men, I will oblige. It's as you said earlier, Paxton- I don't spend enough time with the younger generation." He pauses, and adds, "However, if I might have your decision to speed my ambition in helping Yawley..."
Tadhg is lost in this conversation, but Paxton relents. "Another day, Finch. You've given me three weeks, but give me another day and I swear to you, I will fully consider your situation so that you may freely fly to our troubled friend."
Wickwright grins, a genuine, face-stretching smile. "That is enough." he is well-pleased, but from his hiding place, Hopkin's tiny metal fists tighten. He is not eager to leave this white, blank world, to return to Gadu and strife and chaos and March land, and Tadhg is a most unwelcome bringer of this news, his face so like the indomitable and impossible O'Neill's. Hopkin feels, not anger, but a stabbing sense of loss, and he peers out the window that he has been able to sleep in front of all this long while, trying to catch sight of the world he is leaving behind, so cold, but so quiet, and so close to the Collection, this simple place where he has been able to find respite. He has little desire to move on, and the frustration bubbling in him is bitter. He is so close to that place where he belongs, and the road ahead is so very long. For once, just once, he wants to feel that he simply belongs.
There are too many characters chasing him in this wide world for that. Hopkin's demons are all humans who believe him to be a demon himself, and for him, there will be no easy way to fulfill his purpose.
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Posted: Mon Dec 26, 2011 12:42 am
That night, Hopkin is roused by Paxton, who lifts the Plague out of his hiding place and steps over the recumbent figure of Tadhg on the floor, uncomfortable, but warm. O'Neill's home is but a three day journey hence, however, Paxton would not let O'Neill's son return without a rest in a proper home, tiny cottage though it might be. Hopkin moves his frigid limbs in protest as he sees Tadhg's sleeping form below him, well and truly terrified, but Paxton presses a finger to his lips, causing the struggle to cease, and the Plague's arms to fall loosely, obediently at his sides. Paxton takes Hopkin, puts on his cloak, and steps outside into the frigid night.
"I could leave you out here, you know. If you fell into these drifts, you might be lost forever, and Finch could focus on what he should be," Paxton admits, lowering Hopkin so he is almost touching the deep snow. "Yet, you let me pick you up so easily. Tell me why you were not afraid."
"You are a storyteller," Hopkin answers, attempting to crawl further up Paxton's arm and away from the snow, but only just managing to grab more tightly onto his hand, "And a Jawbone Man."
"And for that, you would trust me wholly. You must know how I- How we feel about your kind."
"What is my kind?" Hopkin asks in despair, frowning at Paxton and wringing his tiny metal hands. "I am a book, and a Plague, and a boy, and every single person I meet views these aspects of me in different measure. I am a character with no identity, and thus I trust only my author's approximation. I look-" He pauses, attempting to order his thoughts so he can express himself correctly, "I feel very much like a Jawbone Book. Wickwright's book. I feel the truth so sincerely that sometimes it aches, and I do not know how to express it or how to comprehend it fully, and only Wickwright and others are able to make what I feel clear to me. But I know that which I cannot express myself, and I feel it down to the bones I am not sure I have. I know truth. Wickwright says I am still a book, and he has filled me with all the truth I have ever known. He must be correct, and I do not understand why we must spend so much time convincing you of this!" He tugs nervously at his sleeve, uncomfortable with speaking so frankly whilst Wickwright is absent, but far too frustrated to let his feelings fester. "It is very hard, saying these things. Finding the right words, that is very hard, and I have little practice with it. It was never my place before."
"If it was not your place before," Paxton replies implacably, "Some part of you has changed."
Hopkin startles at the accusation and gives it thought, little fingers flexing restlessly. He has only ever vocalized his concerns to Wickwright before, who has always agreed with him. Oh, what had Wickwright said! "...People get sick," he counters at last, "And they are allowed to change and yet still be human. I have been Plagued. I am merely a book that is sick! I may be other things now, but I am still a book, and that is the important part of me. I have more responsibilities, but my original function has not altered."
"O'Neill does not think so, does he?" Paxton queries, and the look of complete bewilderment on Hopkin's face at the surmise is almost comical, as if he had thought that by simply not speaking the fact aloud, his obvious concern over O'Neill would go unnoticed.
Hopkin pauses, mouth moving soundlessly for a few moments, and he appears to be having an inner battle, pacing up and down the length of Paxton's hand. Presently, he offers, "O'Neill said we must visit the Jawbone Men," and leaves the phrase there as if he fears it might grow teeth and eat him. Paxton raises an eyebrow, and at the gesture so characteristic of his own Grimm, Hopkin quite breaks down, the half-truth having driven him half-mad in even the few short moments he had intended to let it lie there. "Andhewouldnotgivemehisblessing," he admits all at once, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush that he immediately and visibly regrets, his mouth contorting into a grimace filled with self-loathing. "And... A-and, Wickwright said that if you knew, y-you would not accept me as a contribu-bution." He slumps, no longer moving at all on Paxton's palm, hunched over and miserable. "But despite my misfortune, I cannot leave a question unanswered when I know the truth, for I swear to you, Paxton, I am still a book!"
Paxton seems not to hear and instead looks at the sky, brows furrowing slightly as he seems to conference with the stars he studies. Anxiously, Hopkin looks skyward as well, but hears nothing and sees only night. "Hopkin," Paxton interrputs, causing the book boy to stumble and quickly redirect his gaze "Tell me a story."
"Which story," he mutters miserably, considering the change of subject as a defeat.
"The most important one you have."
The Plague, to Paxton's surprise, does not pause to think. "In the land of Imisus," he dutifully speaks, "There was once a boy born to a man named Finnigan Finch..."
As the Plague spins his story, the night grows deeper, and visions are painted of something that was never written in Wickwright's book, something he experienced and something his Grimm whispered to him on the verge of death, the most important story he knows, because when it seemed he was going to lose Wickwright forever, it was the last story spoken to him. Paxton listens, impassive, to the birth and life of Wickwright Finch, but when it comes to the part where Hopkin arrives in the narrative, the book boy pauses and stumbles. "Go on," Paxton urges.
"I cannot," Hopkin replies in frustration. "I cannot, and yet this is the part which is most important!"
"Why not," asks the Jawbone Man with disapproval, "If you are still a book as you say, you must finish."
"I am trying," Hopkin begs, "Can you not see, I am trying to finish, but it has not finished yet, itself!"
Paxton scrutinizes Hopkin for a long while, then sweeps back inside, his heavy cloak making a trail in the snow. He leans over the Plague as he puts it back into its makeshift bed, and the words of the starstruck storyteller echo in Hopkin's head long after he has whispered them into the chill air.
"I trust you to finish the story you've started."
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Posted: Thu Dec 29, 2011 12:50 am
The change in scenery happens more softly and quickly than taking a breath, once Hopkin lays down to sleep, the dream world eagerly devours him. There is a noise winging the breeze, and Hopkin finds the source, a girl who is laughing and dancing and familiar. There are tattered bandages on her feet, and Hopkin rubs at his own. He is no longer in the form of a boy, so she towers over him, and finally trips herself up, falling heavily on the ground, where she is as close to face to face with him as she can be. She struggles to right herself, but before she does, Hopkin impulsively grabs onto her dress. "Please stop," he requests. "It will do you no good."
She gets up and he's pulled along with her again, the world flying and spinning alarmingly for a place so flat. He scurries up her clothes and onto her shoulder, where he wails, "Oh, please cease this endless task! What purpose could it possibly serve?" She angles her head to face him, mid-twirl, replies, "I must finish the dance," and continues her looped arabesques until finally, he looses his footing and falls back to the earth again. He watches her on the flat landscape, leaving red footprints, and rubs his head gingerly, the metal making soft clicks as his fingers and scalp scrape together.
"How does she know when she's done?" he asks no one in particular, and the words hover over his head hesitantly before falling to the flat earth and vanishing. He pushes himself up to his feet again and unsteadily wobbles around, finds she has danced him into a perfectly flat and white world. For a moment, he is not quite sure where he is, but eventually the soft sussuration sounds that get kicked up with his footsteps make him aware- He is in the True World's Shyregoad, where Paxton has lain him down to sleep. It is not so cold in the True World- instead, a flat and soothing white, the colour of blank pages and possibility. The True World's Shyregoad almost makes sense as a resting place for the great Collection, and hesitantly, Hopkin moves as if to seek it. As he does so, he steps into a deep, wet footstep. Lifting his hands, he sees the wetness is a crimson red and recognizes it to be a mark of the dancing girl, still dancing in the freezing snow. Try as he might, the blood has melted enough of the snow it sits on to create a chasm too deep for a large excito to easily extricate himself from, but the blood is unpleasant and he scrabbles all the harder in a futile attempt to remove himself.
"Girl!" he calls, then, in increasing desparation, "Anybody!"
The sound of hooves approaches, and Hopkin looks up, seeing, to his relief, the Prideful Knight.
"Pray tell, Book, why are you in a hole?" asks the Knight with some considerable interest. "Are you in peril?"
"Oh yes," Hopkin replies with relief. "I was attempting to find the Collection when-"
"A quest!" the Knight interrupts. "Well, Book, finish what you started."
"But I cannot-" Hopkin beseeches, but it is too late. The Knight is gone, and in his wake, the snow surrounding Hopkin crumbles, burying him wholly and rumbling as loud as thunder.
Hopkin wakes up suffocating under the rags that serve as his blankets, to thelow murmurs of Finch and Paxton's farewells.
"I cannot," he murmurs, adjusting his bandages and breathing deeply. Wickwright collects him, and he clings to his Grimm, not letting go for the remainder of the tiring day.
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Posted: Thu Dec 29, 2011 1:02 am
Jawbone Men fear change.
Wickwright Finch perches on his makeshift chair in the rattling wagon as night falls and Hopkin finally sleeps. The book would not leave his side all day, more insistently clingy than usual, and though the thing holds great meaning for him, he is glad of the brief respite. Hopkin's presence sometimes irritates him- a reminder of all the change inflicted quite unwillingly upon his own life, upon the Society as a whole. Eventually, he thinks, and not easily, will they have to adapt to a new, Plagued world or be devoured by it. From what he has seen since the time Hopkin altered, there is much that cannot be approached with the same bone-stiffness as could be in days past. O'Neill, despite his opposition to Wickwright's endeavours is a good leader, he considers begrudgingly. In these times, he is a rock of tradition, a pillar of support, and his son, Tadhg, seems to be developing into a man just as staid and noble as the tree his branch was cut from. So different from Feilim, who pries and pokes and frets and shakes, unsure of what a Finch should be, and all too quick to fly into things. Wickwright had not had to think about becoming Finch quite so hard as Feilim so obviously does, and Wickwright had not wanted the mantle even half so badly as his unofficial successor.
He wonders, perhaps, if Feilim is waiting for him to die. He is not sure what stays his hand from legitimizing Feilim, it's as the boy himself said- there is no other candidate.
Hopkin murmurs in his sleep, and Wickwright turns to the bronze Plague, trying to catch his musings. Even when he doesn't speak aloud, at rest, the Plague is constantly moving hs mouth, as if reciting incantations. Now he speaks jumbled, mumbled Ardenian, and Wickwright closes his own eyes, letting the language wash over him like an old friend. Rarely in his travels does he get a chance to hear it coming from a mouth other than his own. Hesitancy aside, it's good to have company in the wagon, a like mind. A comforting familiarity comes from Hopkin, though he is not one and the same. He is of Wickwright's mind and invention, and his musings resonate with Wickwright's own thoughts, if not seen through a different lens. There are times when the strange aspects of the book-boy drive him half mad, but for all that there are times when he recognizes his book in the thing so wholly that it feels like this is how it should be after all. Not everything, he muses, is difficult about change. In even the least propitious circumstances, the old ways manifest themselves again and soften every blow. In some ways, having Hopkin like this is even far better than before. Did not the lack of company drive him half mad on these very voyages? The idea of going from Shyregoad to Gadu alone would have filled his days with tedium before. Having someone to reply back makes a mighty difference.
For the Society, it has always been difficult to adjust, however, and he remembers the last man who tried to make it so, shuddering as all good Jawbone Men are wont to do at that great war of theocracy, might against right and wit against war. Kingsley had a great deal of support for the changes he intended to make, and yet, he was no hero. After the treachery of Kingsley, who would bring themselves forward to enact a change to save the Society he wounded? O'Neill held it together with the glue of tradition, and even that was a weak solvent. If just the issue of Hopkin could make the structure quaver so violently as to fall apart, what foolish soul might push the Society so hard as to question the very foundations it is based on?
He frowns deeply, thinking of Paxton's parting words to him as he gave his blessing.
"I will attend the meeting, Finch. Finish the story you started."
The words both Paxton and he had grown weary of as boy's the storyteller's scolding to a troublesome son. No Finch boy could leave a tale unfinished, and he had gotten into more than his share of trouble in the idle days when telling stories was a pastime and not a vocation. To hear it echoed again makes him feel chastized, as if between the years, Paxton has somehow outgrown him. It is the fault of personas, he supposes. Finch acts the younger, Paxton the older, and as time goes on, a Jawbone Man must become less a Wickwright, more a Finch, less a Jeremiah, more just Paxton. But why might Paxton remind him of that? Paxton rarely chooses his words with flippancy.
It is, perhaps, a question. Surely Paxton has concerns about the society preying on his mind just as he himself and O'Neill do. Had he been, in his own way, asking Wickwright if he is plotting something?
Wickwright grunts and looks back at Hopkin, whose Ardenian recitations have stopped, the glowing light from his mouth now moving silently to itself. If Paxton wants solutions from his book, he's sorely mistaken. Some things have changed about Hopkin, it is true, but he is still simply a contribution, nothing more, nothing less. He is sick. He is altered physcially. But all Wickwright desires is to finish the story he started years ago, when he first began to bind the volume that he intended to donate to the Collection. Hopkin is Wickwright's voice, his way of distinguishing Wickwright Finch from the hundreds of anonymous Finches before him. He is a brief peek out from Wickwright's assumed mantle, and Wickwright would rather leave the change the Society needs to some other Kingsleyesque fool. Hopkin is his book, and this story did not start with the plaguing of it.
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Posted: Thu Dec 29, 2011 1:04 am
There is little room in Hopkin's heart for Tadhg O'Neill. Already he has made a curious and most unwanted habit of arriving into Hopkin's life with little to no warning, and as Hopkin hides from him in the wagon, he sulks as he listens to the animated conversation that the boy is having with Wickwright. To hear his Grimm talk now, one would not think that he had expressed such displeasure at the prospect of Tadhg's arrival to Paxton's home not days ago. But what else can Wickwright do? Regardless of his feelings on the matter, Tadhg has not only caught up to them on the road, but sought to accompany them, and Hopkin knows that even with him around, Wickwright begrudes an unexpected traveling companion far less than an unexpected guest. The long stretches of solitude throughout much of Panymium run the chatty Finch half mad. Yet Hopkin cannot help but feel that it is his place to keep Wickwright company in his travels, just as it has always been, even when he was a silent book, and company means hiding, it means waiting, and it means that someone else gets his Grimm's attention. The fact that this someone else is a relative of O'Neill, who still looms large in Hopkin's memory, is insult heaped upon injury, and in his secluded spot behind the hideous stuffed badger, Hopkin glares at Tadhg without eyes.
It does little for his situation, as Tadhg merely scratches the back of his head and continues to speak to Wickwright, of places Wickwright has traveled, people he's met, alcohol he's drunk, and politics he's dabbled in. Tadhg turns out to be, if not incredibly clever, acutely aware of the world around him, in true O'Neill form. As it's Wickwright's job to be witty and wise, it's the station of an O'Neill to be a deft politician, and if the eighteen year old Tadhg is not quite deft, he is, at least, viciously amicable, laughing easily, listening intently, and speaking merrily. If he were not making such an imposition to Hopkin, he fancies he would almost be obliged to like him, but as it is, Hopkin can merely envy his freedom and the reactions he spurs from his Grimm. Hopkin is not amicable enough to encourage such candid banter from people. He is too-awkward, ill-fitted to a human world in mind and in form, and thus further estranged from that world as an oddity. To be like Tadhg O'Neill, who relaxes wherever he is like he is quite sure he fits in, would be quite a change indeed. Hidden and bitter as he is, Hopkin cannot discern if such a turnaround would be welcome.
However, because he is Hopkin, his feelings aside, he listens to even the most banal conversations with all the concentration of an eager schoolboy trying to memorize a lesson, and especially to the words of his author, to whom he would attend in any situation. Therefore, unlike Wickwright who is quite swept along by the process of conversing, Hopkin is able to see what his Grimm is not- the glacial pace by which Tadhg carefully moves their discourse to what he actually wishes to discuss. Were Hopkin cannier, he would have discerned it sooner, as it is, it takes analyzing and comprehension of the young O'Neill's intent comes painfully slowly. But not as slowly as it comes for Wickwright, who dances and dodges around bits of conversation he doesn't wish to discuss but can't help but be eventually cornered as his guard is slowly lowered. This Finch is too used to talking to his own O'Neill, a much older, more cautious man. Tadhg is an O'Neill of subtle differences, but they are enough to trip Wickwright up and play him into a trap of words Tadhg had certainly intended him to stumble upon from the beginning. Laughing, the both of them begin to speak fondly of Paxton and swap stories until at last, Tadhg springs a most unwelcome question.
"Tell me, Finch, what was your business with Paxton? These days we rarely hear tell of you at all, let alone see you in person up in Shyregoad."
The atmosphere changes imperceptibly. Hopkin, too, feels his own back stiffen, but Wickwright laughs it off. "Nothing but the business of old men," he responds cheerfully. "It would bore you to tears to hear tell of what we wrinkly folk get up to in our idle hours, but I am glad it brought me there, for I would not have heard of Yawley's plight otherwise. My word, I haven't seen the boy since before his father passed, may he rest." He taps his fingers on the carton they're eating off of distractedly, "And worse, being inducted so young because of it and knowing what became of his partner..."
Tadhg turns grim at the mention, sipping at the mug of stale ale that Wickwright has been able to present him with. "Yates's mother died," he stated simply. "It doesn't justify it, but we think that's why he left. The Obscuvians keep saying they have answers, after all."
Wickwright's mouth pulls into a grimace. "Answers must be comforting to have," he observes lightly. "All we have is truth, and it seems to beg explaining more often than it explains." Tadhg pauses, narrowing his eyes as he processes the comment, and then laughs the laugh of the slightly tipsy at something not very funny. Wickwright allows himself a lopsided grin, for it's hard enough to find a reason to smile about cases like Yates's considering all the defectors there have been in the Society since Obscuvos reared his feathered head. "Has Yawley been living on his own all this while?" he asks, waving a hand at the still-sniggering boy. "A daunting task for someone his age."
Tadhg straightens up, shaking his head in the negative. "No, Yates's family took him in after Yates flew from home. A blessing they were able to do that much, but of course it made sense at the time since Yawley's mother could help with the work since that Yates's was dead, but-"
"Then Elspeth died, too," finishes Wickwright sourly. Tadhg gives a gloomy nod. "Grim business, this world."
"Too grim for the likes of me," Tadhg remarks decisively. "I don't want to be a man with a face as lined as my father's. Rather, let me drink in a wagon with Finch!" This time it is he who causes Wickwright to laugh, and his return smile is easy, pleased with himself despite being the high-born son of a nobleman that he can yet make an old mendicant chuckle. However, there's something that he's been angling at this whole time, and from his vantage point, Hopkin hasn't missed him slowly bringing the conversation around form the world to the Jawbone Men to Finch. "I suppose these days you're all feeling the pressure to be sure of your successors though," he remarks, shrugging easily. "My father's been putting far more pressure on me these days to marry- My business out here is actually partly to meet the father of a potential bride."
"Yours is a good age to be married," Wickwright affirms, "If you're inclined to that sort of life. Myself, I never could stand the thought of settling down in one place. But you O'Neills are more sedentary."
"Well, politics," Tadhg offers offhandedly. "Whether I want to marry or not, it's for the greater good and such. Surely father's given you the speech before, too."
"It is his favourite," notes the elder Jawbone Man wryly. "Don't you want to marry, though? Sedentary O'Neill? It's not such a bad life."
Tadhg pauses, bites his lip, and after a moment, remarks, "No, I don't think I do. But I will, because the purpose that my marriage serves benefits everyone working on my father's lands, and all my family. And I get something out of it as well, of course."
"Oh?" asks Finch.
"Yes," Tadhg affirms decisively. "Whomever I marry will be capable of running the estate, so I intend to travel more frequently like our forebears." He gestured around the wagon and smiled like a child being given sweets. "Look at this! All the traveling you've done has made you indispensable to my father. Jawbone men meet so infrequently these days that to hear of what occurs in Mishkan is well nigh impossible unless it's by correspondence, and then we must rely completely on the same perspectives." He leans in, resting his arm on the overturned crate and almost knocking over his mug. "I really admire your work, Finch, and I'm glad I was able to meet you. I've heard much about you from Feilim."
Whether the cause is the late hour or the alcohol, Wickwright is slow to evade the topic, and so Tadhg pounces at last. "But tell me, what are your intentions for Feilim? I hate to sound morbid, but what with Yawley and Yates, I need to be able to rely on there still being a Finch in the future." He has become all gravity, explaining his logic as if his life depends upon it. "Next year I am eighteen, and so I am officially inducted as a Jawbone man. Feilim will be eighteen, too, come next December."
"Now, Feilim is a special situation," Wickwright rebuts, annoyed that he let himself be lured into this line of discussion at all.
"I know," Tadhg replies, and Wickwright is caught off guard by the fact that he is not offering resistance.
"Do you?"
"Feilim doesn't act like a Finch," Tadhg levels with Wickwright. "He was mostly raised by my father when it comes to Jawbone doctrine and that looks bad, politically speaking- I realize that. It was how I was raised to think, and I see it just as clearly as you. The whole situation is less than savoury, but Feilim needs to know where he stands or he will never act more Finchlike."
Wickwright puffs out his cheeks and Hopkin in his corner stares at his Grimm, his mouth pulled into a thin white line. He remembers Feilim's anxities that are so similar to his own, and waiting for Wickwright to reply on the matter feels almost as nervewracking as waiting to hear judgement on whether he is part of the Collection. He feels sympathy for Feilim Finch, who means well and tries hard, and almost cannot bear hearing of the younger Finch's problems, for it is too much like directly facing his own. "I should have seen you were setting me up for this," Wickwright mutters amusedly, "But I thank you for hearing me out. In earnest, I could not tell you what stays my hand from legitimizing my nephew, but my hand is stayed. The truth of the matter is that I do not feel he's ready."
"He's old enough," Tadhg presses. "Waiting longer would only wound his confidence more, I know what he's like. Please, if you legitimize him, I want to travel with him-- If I get married soon, I can do that, keep an eye on him." Wickwright hesitates still, so he adds, "It's like marriage, a bit. If you do this," he pauses, "I can give you benefits."
"Not exactly subtle bribery, but you're a young O'Neill yet. What sort of, ahem, benefits were you planning on offering?"
Tadhg addresses his elder gravely. "If you ever need anything... If you have something that needs legitimizing, I will support you in that endeavour." The word 'Plague' is never spoken, but is there in the room as physically present as Hopkin is. The book boy's bronze fingers clench. Tadhg is giving them an opportunity.
"Anything?" Wickwright asks cautiously, leaning back against the wagon wall as he considers.
"Feilim is a good man," counters Tadhg. "The Society does not think he's up to much, but I grew up with him, and I do. No one else will give him an opportunity, Finch, not even you. But he's a loyal friend to me, and if you are ever in my situation, I understand. And I will support you. But only if you support me."
There is a pregnant silence interrupted only by the metally squeaks of bronzey hands wringing somewhere in hiding. If Tadhg notices it, he says nothing. Then, Wickwright laughs, the spell is broken, and Tadhg relaxes in his seat. "You've got me, though you're much more awkward about it than your father. All right, I'll keep it in mind. If I ever am in such a situation, if I have your support, when the time comes, you will have mine, O'Neill junior. If Feilim can make such fast friends, perhaps he has more of the Finch in him yet."
Tadhg isn't the only one who is relieved by the agreement. Somewhere in the dark, Hopkin sighs for Feilim. If Tadhg supports Feilim and will support Hopkin, perhaps he is not a man who deserves to be hated, after all. He may take up Wickwright's time, but if it is as an advocate for the Feilims and Hopkins of the world, the book boy doesn't mind. All such in-between people need someone to look after them, and if Tadhg is one of them, Hopkin will run his words smooth in his head, till he grows weary from the analyzing of them. It's refreshing to meet with something other than resistance, and after the peace that Paxton's sojourn has given them, Hopkin thinks that perhaps the world has finally begun to give up its favour.
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