Sweetly Worn, IIMature


The storytelling among the watchmen was a sport of sorts. There were simple rules that each knew by heart, but separately they all adapted their own technique, focusing on their strengths and dampening their weaknesses in the ways of speech, which for the majority of my kin was vocabulary. This made the tales I'd heard in startling repetition remain worthy of a measure of focus, keeping eye on the evolving strategies and how they may be best used among the youth who's rights didn't allow them to the longtable. Interruption came from the graying hunchback who sulked in the stool to my left. He spun suddenly, whipping his greased hair into my eyes. This was followed by a well-mannered apology and a grin which affirmed my guess that this intrusion was intended. He eyed me up slowly, breathing damp air into my face as he did so. I was a youth of thirteen at the time of his interview, of a palish yellow complexion and thick, brown, wind bound hair kept in a coarse braid. Thin nose, roundish jaw, with red rose freckles patterning my cheeks. Unremarkable. But he seemed pleased enough, and I scolded myself for the concern of the fact. I countered his survey with my own. He wore a heavy horse-flesh robe that covered, what I was certain, a dozen blistering infections and rot adorning his hide. His face surely reflected such. His lip hung loose down his chin, and his eyes stalked unevenly as he took detail of me. Chunks of the husk of a nameless animal were imprisoned in his knotted mane. Several moments passed in this way, and he spoke before I could call out to my father. “Yer tha' Russlin's lad, yeh? Yah look li'e 'im, yah doow. Fit an' likin' at dat.” I could hardly make out his hoarse speech and northern dialect. He seemed to know my father, however, so I made to call out to that “Russlin” once more, to be beaten out by a second interruption as I took breath. “Yah fath'e was a guuuuuud kid. Lef' the tail o' dat cat fah me, 'e did. Made a hat outta it. Baggin' ol' thing et was. Had tah strangle ma' ragin' horse wif da thin', though. Damn shame, it was. Horse took a bite outta it...” He continued for some time. By this point I was at once both amazed and certain my life would be ended at any moment. I raised a finger, for reasons I can't recall, to find the very tip of it lost in the jowls of who the reader is more than capable to guess. My response to this was then, and still is, a deafening hysteria that bellowed about the longtable. This I maintained until catching sight of my halved, angrily bleeding finger which put me into a fit so maddening and unintelligible and exhausting that it demanded to be followed immediately by body-forced slumber.

The End

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