From alt.pub.dragons-inn Fri Aug 11 10:47:07 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8618 Path: netcom.com!noc.netcom.net!news.sprintlink.net!in2.uu.net!news1.digital.com!nntp-hub2.barrnet.net!pacbell.com!amdahl.com!birdsong!gina From: "Gina M. Jenkins" Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: Re: [Bwacuqwe & Aven-Ryx] InnCeption Message-ID: Date: Thu, 10 Aug 95 16:09:21 PDT References: <40afaq$jnr@newsstand.cit.cornell.edu> Reply-To: "Gina M. Jenkins" Organization: The Birdsong Company, PO Box 2031, Sunnyvale CA 94087-2031 Lines: 128 mcharles@cam.cornell.edu writes: > (Copyright Michael A. Charleston 1995, All rights reserved. > All correspondence should be sent to MCharles@cam.cornell.edu) > > He opened his eyes, and focussed with some difficulty on the > ancient, solid beams above him. He lay in a comfortable > cot, clean and smelling of starch and soap. In the rafters > overhead the complex artifacts of an arachnid history > revealed themselves, collecting dust motes since the dawn > of time -- or at least, since the construction of this > room, by its appearance. The light from a window behind > his head fell in flickering rays in and among the filigree > above, suggesting hidden depths and darknesses, golden > treasures and mysteries, within. He chuckled to himself at > his childishness, and then stopped, suddenly. > > He blinked back his fascination with the realisation that > the last thing he clearly remembered was being attacked in > a street, being stabbed.. He tentatively felt his stomach > and belly, which his returning memory informed him was the > site of this attack, but there was no evidence of it, none > barring a slight welt, or scratch. It was a nothing, a > mere shadow of the ruinous wound that he knew he had > suffered. > > He wondered vaguely at the absence of his clothing, but on > raising his head, saw his bloodied robes thrown over the > back of a chair in a corner, beside... > > She lay in sleep, curled sinuously on some piled up rugs. > Her hair was variously cut short and tied back, efficient > and practical. Her clothing was similarly simple of > design, made from what appeared to be a fine hide of some > kind, but it was decorated with complicated beadwork. > > Her face was mostly obscured by her... paws? Yes, they were > *paws*. Interesting. He wondered distractedly how she > managed fine manipulation, since she clearly did so > admirably. > > She was narrow of shoulder, supple of spine. Her long limbs > fitted around her body snugly. She was well muscled - > though not extravagantly - and carried an air of grace and > poise, even into her sleep. > > The corner of her mouth twitched, her... paw... moved > similarly. One leg tensed, and the bare extremity of that > limb flexed. > > He withdrew his gaze, reckoning it perhaps to be in some way > effecting her disturbed sleep, and scanned the room for his > belongings. There was a light change of clothing in his > bag... Ah, there it was. His robe would have to be > repaired, though if he could not get the blood out of it he > might have to find another. It was a good robe, it had > come a great distance; it would be a pity to discard it. > There were memories in that robe. He caught a whiff of one > of them and made a mental note to wash the thing, soon. > > He dressed, partially for the warmth - he was used to hotter > climes - but also in deference to his somnolent rescuer: it > was all very well to regard a naked man in a medical > capacity, but it was not quite the same thing, in many > civilisations, when the man was fully awake and able. He > moved as quietly as he could, but she twitched an ear at > him in her sleep and stirred vaguely. He halted and waited > for her sleep to return, then approached further, and > gently lifted her onto the bed. She stretched and > squirmed, and a strange, familiar sound emerged... It was > some moments before he realised where he had heard that > sound before, and he chuckled again. > > At her renewed stirring, he withdrew to the window and > looked out on a bustling street. Torches and braziers > provided the flickering light and cast golden sheens on the > faces of those below. None glanced up at him, and he > caught but few snatches of conversation in this still > unfamiliar tongue, but he felt he knew many of them. Knew > their dreams, secrets, hopes, desires, hatreds and fears, > loves and loathings. They way people showed all their > thoughts and feelings on their faces often bemused him, > sometimes frightened him, but never, ever bored him. A > million things were on each face, should anyone take the > time to look. Mostly he chose not to, since it was so > patently obvious that such faces masked but imperfectly, > minds to which the very idea of revealing themselves too > fully must be abhorrent. He did not like to see too much > of what those around him did not realise they showed. > > He turned back with alacrity to Aven-Ryx - that was her > name, he recalled - as she lay dreaming. Her twitching > limbs reminded of the dogs and cats he knew from his > childhood, so long ago, as they pursued their ephemeral > prey. He liked her, he decided. The pure relaxation on > her face was enough for that, such a contrast with the > concern she had evinced in the alley. Now, whether they > could actually stand each other in normal conversation > would be the acid test.. > > For the moment though, she slept. > Suddenly she awoke and sat up. Not turning around she asked Bwacuqwe, "Are you decent? How are you feeling?" After Aven-Ryx got an affirmative answer she turned around, and looked at him. She began to rid her eyes of sleep, and then walked over to the wash bowl on the dresser within the room. She poured herself some water and began to clean her hands, and fur of his blood. She glanced up after washing and watched him in the mirror positioned in front of her. She noticed that he was watching her face. "Are you curious about something, Bwacuqwe?" She turned and walked to him, and looked into his eyes, remembering that some humans destroy what they do not understand, and that is thier way. {Does he understand, does he comprehend that I just saved his life?} -- "Gina M. Jenkins" ... Speaks for [him|her]self and does not represent The Birdsong Company