I love pork, done just about any way. But best is probably over coals, roasting slow and basted with this honey, garlic and ëotherstuffí mixture that old Aesc makes back home. To drink, mead is good, but I really took a liking to this dark brown liquid that they have in a few of the better shadows. Called coffee; they serve it mostly hot, sweetened, and thick with cream. You can add liqour to it, too. Thatís just about perfect in my book.
I canít stand turnips, parsnips and that whole bunch of vegetables in that family. Even carrots make me want to retch. Yeah, thereís a story there, but we donít know each other well enough yet.
I never had one growing up and I donít really know why. I guess that might have something to do with some of the creatures that Iíve forged since. I donít really think of Vigga or Baeleyge, or even Stane as pets though. More like people with differences. Hel, maybe thatís how people see their pets too.
I like to rely on my own abilities, but there are limits to everything. The corrollary is that when youíve reached your limits, you are at the mercy of the one who can save you so it had better be worth the help. I havenít been around Amber much but letís not kid each other. Damn near everything and everyone in the berg is for sale, and everbody keeps score. In either case, before I accepted help from outside I would reassess the situation, change tactics, maybe even start over on a new tack. You donít have to win the first battle, but you have to win the last. If my life was at stake, I would take the handout as a last resort in some cases, but I canít give you a hard and fast rule. It would depend on who was offering and what else was on the line. There are things more important than little old me, or so Iím told. And I think there are probably some people that it would be better to be dead than owe a favour to, you know.
I have a little of the trickster in me, so I try not to take things that are meant well too seriously. But yeah, Iíd get even, and Iíd pay in the same coin.
Mostly I sleep fine, but there are things that left marks. I have regrets and sometimes those come up and kick me where it hurts. And there have been times (yup, believe it or not) that I have been in horrible situations. When I am in the wrong mood at bedtime, my subconscious will sometimes throw those back at me, bigger and badder that they were for real.
B. with shades of C and D. I seem to have a need for poetic justice in matters such as these. I have been wronged a few times in my life and I have a nasty streak that keeps accounts on this kind of thing. I have done things that I would not normally have considered in a different frame of mind. And time doesnít seem to smooth out the hackles either. I once nursed a hate for four years til I was in a postion to do something about it. When the time came I had cooled off and was thinking clearly, but that didnít change my plans. Scorched earth.
Thatís tricky. Iíll tell you about the first one I remember, because it had a greater impact on me.When I left Amber, my mind was like a box lunch dropped from the third story.
Anyway, I was moving through the forest, all murky and dank, full of noise, mostly from me stepping on twigs. Woodscraft was not my thing in those days. I remember being nervous. I didnít know where I was, though the word Arden kept flitting through my brain. I was 16 true years old, though I didnít know that at the time either. This wasnít a jungle, it was a forest. Cool, with big trees covered in moss at the base. Not much undergrowth, the canopy above was too full. Everything had a greenish tinge to it, all the light that made it down here was filtered through leaves. I had the feeling I had been under that canopy for days, wandering without having determined if there was even a sun or sky above.
I didnít know about shadows or walking through them just then, so I walked the old fashioned way. I knew I was lost, but I must have been functioning on some level, because when I looked down into my hand I was holding a very cruel looking spiky club. Iím pretty sure I made it, but I donítí really remember, even now. Looking down at my clothes confirms my earlier impression that I had been wandering in a daze for some time. I was filthy, my wheat colored tunic now mostly other more earthy, earth tones. Torn and sweat stained too. Maybe I had run from something, but that didnít seem right. For an instant, I had this vision of my tunic, new and golden, scarlet trim ablaze. Rippling with a wind from about my feet, shot through with a mass of blue sparks that whirled up in the tiny cyclone about me. Then, the vision was gone.
It was about then that I realized that I was being followed. I couldnít exactly hear it. But It just made sense. I thought back about the portion of the forest I had just come through and had a pretty good idea of where Iíd be if I wanted to shadow someone and close the distance slowly, carefully, before I made my move. I made my plan. I leapt to a low hanging branch of a nearby tree. If my tail was where it ought to be it should have seen the move. Then, with tree between me and it, I dropped to the ground in a silent crouch (the silent part was mostly luck) club in hand. Then I waited, holding my breath in case it could hear. Worked like a charm. The hunter came stealthily around from the other direction looking up expecting to see me. Didnít even register the swing at its knee until the pain brought its head down fast and howling. I heard the knee crack and it went down.
I say it but I realized then that ëití was a she, of sorts. Bigger than me by nearly half again, and that all stooped over from a forward hunched spine. Her teats flapped as she collapsed over her damaged knee.wickedly clawed hands scrabbling for something to throw at me to keep me off long enough for her to regain her footing. Her left hand seized on a rock the size of my head and hurled it with deadly accuracy at me. I dove to the right, putting the bole of the tree between us and coming around the other side. When I got there she was gone. In her place a beautiful girl my own age hobbled to stand awkwardly before me, her hands covering her modestly as well as she could. I was not fooled, but I wondered which was the true shape of my attacker and thought I had some time from the way she was favouring her leg. I came a little closer and said something in Thari. She shook her head and made one stumblstep in more or less my direction. Without even thinking, so disarming was her charm, I leapt forward to catch her. She caught me in an embrace that forced the air from my lungs. Suddenly the hulking ebon-skinned hag was back, squeezing and clawing for all she was worth. I lost the club right off and we struggled, each for a better grip, trying to trip the other or pull something off. And each of us knew that the other had the strength to do just that. Her leg didnít seem to be troubling her now, but maybe it was still weaker than the rest of her. I slammed my heel into the kneecap, then brought the leg down across the one I had just kicked as I flipped her with all my strength. There was a howl, a loud snap and she was airborne then slamming into a treetrunk which shuddered under the impact. I searched frantically for my club and buried it in her head as she stuggle to rise. And just like that I was looking down at the mangle and ruined corpse of the lovely girl that I had killed.
I threw up, I buried her and moved on. Sheís one of the ones that I see in dreams once in a while.
I am pretty casual most of the time as you can tell, but there is a time for fine words and airs. I like poetry and you have to recite it where I come from so that takes a certain flare. Favourite turns of phrase? Not really. But I do find myself saying, "Not now, Jack!" a lot. Does that count.
I feel safest at home in Middangeard so thatís where I would probably go if I had the strength. I get broody in the kinds of situations you mentioned so I can go home and sulk a little, play some chess, put in some time at the forge once I get over the worst of my funk and then maybe go fishing. If I didnít go home, there is a shadow that Vigga and I travelled to when she was tracking someone. I liked it, quiet town on a calm shallow bay spanned by a gossamer bridge. There is a hostel there that is a rest stop for wayward poets and singers. I spent several nights there just listening before I felt confident enough to try something of my own. But everone was cool about it and I felt accepted right away. The only drawback is that they donít know the game there, so I wouldnít get to play and I donít get to enough as it is. Maybe Corwinís earth, they have some of the finest players in shadow.
A bunch of years back, just after I made Baeleyge, I built a personal servant I call Stane. Made him all out of neatly carved obsidian. He takes care of that sort of thing.
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