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A Rose In The Wind: A Saga of the Halmae -- Updated June 19, 2014
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<blockquote data-quote="ellinor" data-source="post: 4831570" data-attributes="member: 14561"><p><strong>3x01</strong></p><p></p><p>Kormick had smelled a lot of bad smells before. Back alleys; tavern privies; fishmongers’ shacks, the squalid rooms of small-time crooks who hadn’t paid up and soon would be screaming about their broken knees . . . <em>Gods, you break man's knees, he just won't shut up about it ...</em></p><p></p><p>All those olfactory nightmares were part of his life in Dar Und. But as he awoke, the wind carried an odor so bad he didn’t just smell it—he felt it. The ferric stench of dead rats permeated the air, coating his nostrils and the back of his throat, sinking into his stomach. <em>Note to self,</em> he thought, unsurprised. <em>100 feet is not enough.</em></p><p> </p><p>Mena and Twiggy were patrolling the last of their watch shift, and the slave Arden was standing over the fire, cooking the morning meal. As Kormick watched a rivulet of steam rise from the slave’s cookpot, the thought of eating brought with it a new wave of nausea. He pulled his pack together and set about waking the others. </p><p> </p><p>As each person woke, the consensus grew that they should pack up the camp as quickly as possible and put some serious distance between themselves and the rat-strewn valley before doing anything else.</p><p> </p><p>“If you think that is best,” said Rose, “but we should carry with us the breakfast that Arden is cooking. It smells good.”</p><p> </p><p>Everyone in the group spun to look at her. “How can you possibly smell breakfast,” Twiggy asked, “with this overwhelming stench in the air?” Twiggy went back to what she had been doing—which, as far as Kormick could tell, was trying to calm the agitated mouse trembling in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>“The only thing I smell is breakfast,” replied Rose. She paused a bit. “No, that’s not true. I also smell the flowers growing on that shrub,” she pointed to a bush that looked like honeysuckle, but with bluish flowers, “and the dirt of the forest floor... ” she trailed off as she looked at the ground and the legion of dead rats scattered not far away.</p><p> </p><p>Savina gave her a quizzical look. “You mean to say you don’t smell the dead rats?”</p><p> </p><p>Rose stared at the ground. “I don’t smell them at all." She shook her head. "Why don’t I smell them?” She looked up and around at the others, a hint of panic creeping into her voice. “Why don’t I smell them!?”</p><p> </p><p>The others had never seen Rose so agitated. They looked at each other, uncomfortably unable to answer. “I... maybe...” Twiggy began, and stopped, at a rare loss for words.</p><p></p><p>“Try over there,” Savina suggested weakly, motioning Rose toward the rat carcasses. “Maybe if you got closer...”</p><p> </p><p>As Rose began to walk toward the remains of the battle, her unease increasingly apparent, Mena jumped in. “We are not going to test whether Rose can smell them ‘up close.’ Nor are we going to play twenty questions or dangle a dead rat in front of her face. We have a long way to go today. Rose, naturally we will bring the food. It is in limited supply.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Effective,</em> Kormick thought, admiringly, as he watched Mena calm Rose, giving her packing tasks to keep her mind off this apparently new manifestation of her uniqueness. <em>I like that in a woman. Let other men talk of opal eyes or golden hair. Effective, and good with a flail.</em> He'd known Mena for a few years, back when he was at the Academy. She had a certain ... presence even then. He tried to summon up a memory of her smiling. The best he could do was a bemused scowl. </p><p></p><p>Kormick pulled the pen from his breast pocket – it was his sole magic item, and one he treasured for sentimental reasons in addition to the obviously practical reason that it never ran out of ink – and made another note in his lambskin book.</p><p> </p><p></p><p> </p><p>Kormick tucked the notebook back into his pocket, and looked fondly at the pen. He wondered if Dante di Raprezzi had known – all those years ago, when he handed it to Kormick and said goodbye – that Kormick would still be using it today, that it would be such a help as Kormick observed, noted, planned. Now he was helping to keep Dante’s daughter safe. </p><p> </p><p>Dante’s daughter, who was apparently being hunted by the <strong>Goddess of Evil</strong>. Kormick imagined what the others must be thinking: it’s a walk in the park. "Hike through the country, ask questions from some crazy Alirrian Spring, hike back." He tried think of it that way himself, but it didn’t work. <em>Gods are like Bosses you can’t pay off,</em> he thought. <em>Cross them, and it doesn’t matter how innocent you are, how well protected you are, how many people care for you. They’ll find you. They’ll make you pay.</em></p><p> </p><p>He slipped the pen back in its spot, next to the book. It was time for supper.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ellinor, post: 4831570, member: 14561"] [b]3x01[/b] Kormick had smelled a lot of bad smells before. Back alleys; tavern privies; fishmongers’ shacks, the squalid rooms of small-time crooks who hadn’t paid up and soon would be screaming about their broken knees . . . [i]Gods, you break man's knees, he just won't shut up about it ...[/i] All those olfactory nightmares were part of his life in Dar Und. But as he awoke, the wind carried an odor so bad he didn’t just smell it—he felt it. The ferric stench of dead rats permeated the air, coating his nostrils and the back of his throat, sinking into his stomach. [i]Note to self,[/i] he thought, unsurprised. [i]100 feet is not enough.[/i] Mena and Twiggy were patrolling the last of their watch shift, and the slave Arden was standing over the fire, cooking the morning meal. As Kormick watched a rivulet of steam rise from the slave’s cookpot, the thought of eating brought with it a new wave of nausea. He pulled his pack together and set about waking the others. As each person woke, the consensus grew that they should pack up the camp as quickly as possible and put some serious distance between themselves and the rat-strewn valley before doing anything else. “If you think that is best,” said Rose, “but we should carry with us the breakfast that Arden is cooking. It smells good.” Everyone in the group spun to look at her. “How can you possibly smell breakfast,” Twiggy asked, “with this overwhelming stench in the air?” Twiggy went back to what she had been doing—which, as far as Kormick could tell, was trying to calm the agitated mouse trembling in her hand. “The only thing I smell is breakfast,” replied Rose. She paused a bit. “No, that’s not true. I also smell the flowers growing on that shrub,” she pointed to a bush that looked like honeysuckle, but with bluish flowers, “and the dirt of the forest floor... ” she trailed off as she looked at the ground and the legion of dead rats scattered not far away. Savina gave her a quizzical look. “You mean to say you don’t smell the dead rats?” Rose stared at the ground. “I don’t smell them at all." She shook her head. "Why don’t I smell them?” She looked up and around at the others, a hint of panic creeping into her voice. “Why don’t I smell them!?” The others had never seen Rose so agitated. They looked at each other, uncomfortably unable to answer. “I... maybe...” Twiggy began, and stopped, at a rare loss for words. “Try over there,” Savina suggested weakly, motioning Rose toward the rat carcasses. “Maybe if you got closer...” As Rose began to walk toward the remains of the battle, her unease increasingly apparent, Mena jumped in. “We are not going to test whether Rose can smell them ‘up close.’ Nor are we going to play twenty questions or dangle a dead rat in front of her face. We have a long way to go today. Rose, naturally we will bring the food. It is in limited supply.” [i]Effective,[/i] Kormick thought, admiringly, as he watched Mena calm Rose, giving her packing tasks to keep her mind off this apparently new manifestation of her uniqueness. [i]I like that in a woman. Let other men talk of opal eyes or golden hair. Effective, and good with a flail.[/i] He'd known Mena for a few years, back when he was at the Academy. She had a certain ... presence even then. He tried to summon up a memory of her smiling. The best he could do was a bemused scowl. Kormick pulled the pen from his breast pocket – it was his sole magic item, and one he treasured for sentimental reasons in addition to the obviously practical reason that it never ran out of ink – and made another note in his lambskin book. Kormick tucked the notebook back into his pocket, and looked fondly at the pen. He wondered if Dante di Raprezzi had known – all those years ago, when he handed it to Kormick and said goodbye – that Kormick would still be using it today, that it would be such a help as Kormick observed, noted, planned. Now he was helping to keep Dante’s daughter safe. Dante’s daughter, who was apparently being hunted by the [b]Goddess of Evil[/b]. Kormick imagined what the others must be thinking: it’s a walk in the park. "Hike through the country, ask questions from some crazy Alirrian Spring, hike back." He tried think of it that way himself, but it didn’t work. [i]Gods are like Bosses you can’t pay off,[/i] he thought. [i]Cross them, and it doesn’t matter how innocent you are, how well protected you are, how many people care for you. They’ll find you. They’ll make you pay.[/i] He slipped the pen back in its spot, next to the book. It was time for supper. [/QUOTE]
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