baggysack
owner of the bag
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Other The sack of sacks
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baggysack
owner of the bag
Adventure Awaits, #6 — 996 words
DAY 139 - SLAP IN THE FACE. MINOR NAUSEA. NO PAIN. NO FURTHER INCIDENT.
Four simple fragments. A gaping empty page. Joining so many other pages of so many albums, ineptly-bound; they into a coherent pile within the disarrayed environment. They turned up to face him, all much the same — vague; barren.
DAY 4 - SEARING PAIN. DAY 5 - SEARING PAIN. And then it stopped, for several, miserable months. DAY 38. DAY 52. DAY 79. NO INCIDENT, NO INCIDENT, NO FURTHER INCIDENT.
On his knees and sifting desperately through his research, Ethel ruminated on truly what little he had. And he glimpsed about for a mirror like an abandoned dog mistaking offhand noise for its master — that cold, grey scar stared back. What he'd lost within that immersible time of panic and excitement between here and the tavern, never to be recorded. Truthfully, he knew the entries were empty hope at this point. The tactile sensation, the feeling of progression, gave him something malleable. It couldn't answer the impossible.
"Ethel—" a woman's voice called out, and his first reaction was to go for his sword, the same whose fasten had landed underneath him. Ethel tumbled over cape and sheath...
Mida looked down at him in mock-pity.
"'s the end of the week. We should count inventory, if it's not an inconvenience."
Ethel mumbled out, "Of course," as he straightened to his employee's eye level, always a bit awed by the height difference. Though Miss Hearth regarded him with an unusual disquiet in her pooling brown eyes. "Why would it be?"
"Sorry— you just looked busy's all," she said quietly, and she wouldn't break away from his face.
Nearly, he inquired why, stopped when he realized then they'd have to acknowledge it. The journals, the scar, who he was, and the other questions and circumstances that brought his very humanity into debate.
"So... you'd like to, then?"
"Oh." He snapped out of reverie. "Yes. Verily."
"I'll... lead the way, then." Flushed akin to her hair, Mida lifted the hem of her skirt as she pipped down from Ethel's loft.
The first floor was closed to guests being the owner's adobe and there was theorized to be a basement as well, though said store owner refrained to comment on it. From there, it was shelf upon shelf upon shelf - a veritable forest of wares. Of course, the amount and strewn-about nature of WATCHED POT meant activity was likewise sporadic. Today had been a quiet day, and towards the back of the shop, the two remaining persons relished in the tranquility of closing-time.
Sole employee Mida Hearth jibed at her boss' inability to organize: "What's a store where you can't find anything? It's just like your 'study!'"
Ethel laughed, shaking his head and flipping through the last of the accounts. After picking through the final aisle, Mida rushed her notes back to him, then ran to collect her things.
"Please at least try to do some tidying while I'm gone!"
Ethel waved it off. "You never did tell me what you were leaving for," he said with a mischievous glint.
"Oh, I'm sorry! It's not really worth bein' humble about. It's because it's my birthday coming up, my twenty-first. Figure I'd hitch a ride out to the Holm and visit my parents."
"Well! Happy birthday. I'm glad you haven't lost any of your energy yet."
"Oh, please! We're the same age!" She laughed— like a songbird, Ethel noted.
She went on, "It'll only be a couple of days. If they don't ought to frighten me with a proffer."
"A proposal," she clarified at his confusion. "A marriage proposal. We've never been 'prosperous' ever since-- you know about my father and all. My mother's the type to make connections whenever she can. And to spring things on me late-of-notice. I don't want to get married, especially to some snotty noble — I'd rather make a name for myself here, but if it's for family..."
Ethel looked at her, bubbling up and over with characteristic sprightliness. Waited for a hint of trepidation to show through, growing increasingly and visibly saddened when instead, she caught his eye, and smiling, asked, "I'm rambling, aren't I?"
Searching, searching for words: "Erm... I, uh... I-I'll admit, I'd never have to make a decision of the sort. But I can say..."
He took a deep breath. "Fate is a weird beast. How it works is often understandable only in hindsight. But it has no biases. Even when it seems to be the opposite... fate it fair. Knowing that, you can find good out of any slow misfortune you find yourself in. In my experience, at least."
Mida brightened. She gave a solid, understanding nod. "Exactly! Optimistic is always good. Ah, and you'd certainly know." Sheepishly she said, "I'm sure you've been through more than me."
"Oh, I'm not— I'm just a soldier from 'the Holm' myself. There's nothing..." His words stammered off as Mida walked up to him. She clapped a hand down on his shoulder.
"If we don't meet again by next season, I'll write to you, okay? Jealous noble-husband or not."
Ethel could only stare. He was frozen in place by his mounting, harrowing realization of what he had and hadn't done. "So... you would marry."
With a grin: "If it's what fate wants."
She left him with a farewell and backwards glance before skipping off into the street. There was the chime of the store-bell, and then the balls of light puffed out, one by one.
Four simple fragments. A gaping empty page. Joining so many other pages of so many albums, ineptly-bound; they into a coherent pile within the disarrayed environment. They turned up to face him, all much the same — vague; barren.
DAY 4 - SEARING PAIN. DAY 5 - SEARING PAIN. And then it stopped, for several, miserable months. DAY 38. DAY 52. DAY 79. NO INCIDENT, NO INCIDENT, NO FURTHER INCIDENT.
On his knees and sifting desperately through his research, Ethel ruminated on truly what little he had. And he glimpsed about for a mirror like an abandoned dog mistaking offhand noise for its master — that cold, grey scar stared back. What he'd lost within that immersible time of panic and excitement between here and the tavern, never to be recorded. Truthfully, he knew the entries were empty hope at this point. The tactile sensation, the feeling of progression, gave him something malleable. It couldn't answer the impossible.
"Ethel—" a woman's voice called out, and his first reaction was to go for his sword, the same whose fasten had landed underneath him. Ethel tumbled over cape and sheath...
Mida looked down at him in mock-pity.
"'s the end of the week. We should count inventory, if it's not an inconvenience."
Ethel mumbled out, "Of course," as he straightened to his employee's eye level, always a bit awed by the height difference. Though Miss Hearth regarded him with an unusual disquiet in her pooling brown eyes. "Why would it be?"
"Sorry— you just looked busy's all," she said quietly, and she wouldn't break away from his face.
Nearly, he inquired why, stopped when he realized then they'd have to acknowledge it. The journals, the scar, who he was, and the other questions and circumstances that brought his very humanity into debate.
"So... you'd like to, then?"
"Oh." He snapped out of reverie. "Yes. Verily."
"I'll... lead the way, then." Flushed akin to her hair, Mida lifted the hem of her skirt as she pipped down from Ethel's loft.
~ // ~
The WATCHED POT had a humble interior and an atmosphere of hearth-warmth and sandalwood. Adapted from an ancient place of magic ritual, its owner in jest advertised its inclination towards the occult. Crystalline glass-globes from the ceiling crowned the motif as, in the store's open hours, they emitted a preternatural cast, limned with magic, albeit of the ordinary sort.The first floor was closed to guests being the owner's adobe and there was theorized to be a basement as well, though said store owner refrained to comment on it. From there, it was shelf upon shelf upon shelf - a veritable forest of wares. Of course, the amount and strewn-about nature of WATCHED POT meant activity was likewise sporadic. Today had been a quiet day, and towards the back of the shop, the two remaining persons relished in the tranquility of closing-time.
Sole employee Mida Hearth jibed at her boss' inability to organize: "What's a store where you can't find anything? It's just like your 'study!'"
Ethel laughed, shaking his head and flipping through the last of the accounts. After picking through the final aisle, Mida rushed her notes back to him, then ran to collect her things.
"Please at least try to do some tidying while I'm gone!"
Ethel waved it off. "You never did tell me what you were leaving for," he said with a mischievous glint.
"Oh, I'm sorry! It's not really worth bein' humble about. It's because it's my birthday coming up, my twenty-first. Figure I'd hitch a ride out to the Holm and visit my parents."
"Well! Happy birthday. I'm glad you haven't lost any of your energy yet."
"Oh, please! We're the same age!" She laughed— like a songbird, Ethel noted.
She went on, "It'll only be a couple of days. If they don't ought to frighten me with a proffer."
"A proposal," she clarified at his confusion. "A marriage proposal. We've never been 'prosperous' ever since-- you know about my father and all. My mother's the type to make connections whenever she can. And to spring things on me late-of-notice. I don't want to get married, especially to some snotty noble — I'd rather make a name for myself here, but if it's for family..."
Ethel looked at her, bubbling up and over with characteristic sprightliness. Waited for a hint of trepidation to show through, growing increasingly and visibly saddened when instead, she caught his eye, and smiling, asked, "I'm rambling, aren't I?"
Searching, searching for words: "Erm... I, uh... I-I'll admit, I'd never have to make a decision of the sort. But I can say..."
He took a deep breath. "Fate is a weird beast. How it works is often understandable only in hindsight. But it has no biases. Even when it seems to be the opposite... fate it fair. Knowing that, you can find good out of any slow misfortune you find yourself in. In my experience, at least."
Mida brightened. She gave a solid, understanding nod. "Exactly! Optimistic is always good. Ah, and you'd certainly know." Sheepishly she said, "I'm sure you've been through more than me."
"Oh, I'm not— I'm just a soldier from 'the Holm' myself. There's nothing..." His words stammered off as Mida walked up to him. She clapped a hand down on his shoulder.
"If we don't meet again by next season, I'll write to you, okay? Jealous noble-husband or not."
Ethel could only stare. He was frozen in place by his mounting, harrowing realization of what he had and hadn't done. "So... you would marry."
With a grin: "If it's what fate wants."
She left him with a farewell and backwards glance before skipping off into the street. There was the chime of the store-bell, and then the balls of light puffed out, one by one.
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